


Alienated

by mansikka



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Friendship, Healing, Help, M/M, Michael Guerin Has Issues, POV Michael Guerin, Panic Attacks, Sad Michael Guerin, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: After Caulfield and Max's death, Michael hits rock bottom and then just keeps on digging. Alone in the world, how the hell can he dig himself back out?In which, Michael Guerin learns to trust; other people and himself.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 84
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Okay, so, this wasn't going to be posted for a little bit but here, have it now instead. Michael is a mess in this story, a real, real mess. He needs a hug; lots of them! So be warned!

His head is pounding. His tongue feels both dry and like the final resting place for something rotten, which it might be, judging by the taste in his mouth. Michael rolls his neck, forehead pressing into the wafer-thin pillow provided in his cell. Are there normally pillows? He can't remember. Michael can't even think clearly enough to remember what happened last night. He knows alcohol was had, and maybe a little acetone in between. There was a lot of physical activity judging by the way his entire body aches. When Michael sits up to investigate the split knuckles and ache suggesting a bruise forming on his jaw, it speaks of brawling instead of fucking. _That_ kind of night then. Could be worse.

The closed cell is different, and a little much; it takes Michael longer to focus on his surroundings for expecting familiar bars and a stab to his gut that Max isn't on the other side of them pulling _that_ face at him. What he wouldn't give right now to see that self-righteous smug smile. Even if he's still mad at Max for leaving him in the first place. Even if he's still pissed that all that self-righteousness turned into a god complex where Max thought he could raise the dead, heal _his_ hand despite all the reasons he'd given for not wanting that to happen.

Max is gone. Isobel is broken. Maria gave up on him after a hot minute because the woman has _sense_ not to meddle with someone as much a mess as him. Someone who is still painfully in love with a person who wrecks him just as much as he puts him together, who makes him feel alive while breaking his heart over and over again.

What Michael wouldn't give to see _Alex_ right now. Even if his look for him was one of fury. Even if he'd prefer the loving looks he only gives him when they're alone. He misses Alex, heart and soul, though is it the reality of Alex that he misses most or the version in the figment of his imagination? Where life is perfect, and they can just _be_ with no consequences. But since Alex won't even make eye contact with him if they pass each other on the street, neither scenarios are likely to happen. Michael doesn't blame him even if it hurts.

On to more practical thoughts, then. How many times has he been thrown in here since Max died? Michael explores the too-small cell with its too small shiny surfaces, wincing for the brightness that shows him his own muted reflection. Is this some corner of the jail he's not seen before? A new addition he's missed this past month? Has Max really been gone a month now? Michael can't tell. His head is too foggy to be able to think much of anything, so he takes a leak in the cleaner-than-he-remembers facilities in the corner of the cell, slumping back on the bench waiting for someone to come talk to him.

They've been pretty kind so far. Lenient, he supposes, because of the circumstances of _Max_. Do these shiny new facilities spell the end of those arrangements now?

He's about to find out.

Michael sits straighter for hearing a door being unlocked, wiping a hand over his face trying to get some feeling into it that isn't a dull ache. Which is how he discovers his eye is pretty bruised too, and his nose at least took a hit in the fight. He tries on his best cocky smile, letting himself sink down on the bench with his head against the wall; a movement that reveals he is bruised back there as well. Michael steeples his sore fingers together across his stomach, discreetly flexing the fingers of his newly-healed hand. When his visitor says nothing, Michael squints, trying to make himself look.

Since when was the uniform here _blue_? Did he sleep through some overhaul of Roswell's not-so-finest, or something? Michael lets his gaze settle on the unfamiliar face staring back at him, resists the urge to check the name badge pinned to the front of the man's shirt. "You're new," he says, and because his back hurts so much from who knows what hell he put himself through last night, Michael stands and lopes towards his visitor, tilting his chin in challenge.

"I'd say it was you who isn't from around here," the man retorts; an Officer Cox judging by his badge now Michael has convinced his eyes to focus on enough to read it. It's a reflex reaction to have his gut clench for such words, for so constantly being on alert for his truth to being known. Michael thinks he's kept it hidden enough, shrugging in indifference.

"Oh, yeah? And where's _here_?"

A curious smile forms on Officer Cox's face. "You must have been on some bender if you don't know where you are."

"Well. Why don't you humor me and tell me anyway?" Michael asks, not liking the way he is being smirked at.

"Topeka."

"Topeka?"

"Topeka, _Kansas_," Officer Cox says slowly.

"Like... that show. With all the werewolves and vampires and shit. And the brothers. Westchesters, or something, right? That was somewhere around here."

"I can assure you, Mr. Guerin, that you are not in some _show_."

"Damn shame. I love that show," Michael says, beginning a slow pace around the cell pleading with his brain to unfog so he can get his bearings. "I mean, c'mon. You seen that car?"

"Seems you're pretty fond of cars."

"Uh. Yeah? It's sort of what I do?"

"What?" Officer Cox says. "Hot wire cars when you're out of your skull on I don't know what you were drinking, then drive across state lines and crash said car into a ditch?"

Michael smiles, giving what he hopes is a careless shrug, even if he desperately wants to remember even a minute of all this. "If it wasn't a sweet black Chevy Impala, I'm good with that."

Officer Cox has no sense of humor, or love of pop culture it seems, because his expression only grows darker. "There is a long, long list of charges stacked up against you, Mr. Guerin, thanks to your little adventure over the past couple of days. I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you."

_Couple of days_? Michael thinks, now fighting harder with his thoughts trying to get them in some kind of order. He can't have _no_ memory of the past couple of days. Right?

"Since I assume there's no one to bail you out here in Kansas, I guess you're our guest until we figure things out, Mr. Guerin. You hold tight there."

In a daze, Michael accepts the bag pushed into his hands containing a miniature tube of toothpaste and what looks like a sachet of shower gel. He flinches when he is also handed a pair of overalls straight out of one of the shows Sanders always has on in the background while they work. They're not putting him in a proper _jail_, surely, he thinks, when Officer Cox leads him out and along a long hallway, gesturing that Michael go into a shower block. Michael gives him a look that makes Cox erupt with laughter.

"You're not _that_ pretty, Guerin. And you currently smell like my least favorite dive bar. _Go_."

With a shove between his shoulder blades to _encourage_ him, that Michael would like to say is probably illegal or against his rights or something, Michael stumbles through the door to the showers. He is going to wake up from a really weird dream any minute soon; Michael is sure of it. He will step into the imaginary shower spray of his slumber, and it will be enough to make him wake. Michael groans as he begins to undress, hoping for peace, and more sleep, and solitude when he wakes from this dream—and for a lifting of this desperate, lonely mood.

* * *

He's being _charged_. Actually charged. Michael reads through the list of his offenses over the last twenty-four hours and pinches his thigh again in the hope he might wake up. His thigh is _bruised_ from how many times he's pinched it over the last hour, being interrogated and interviewed and offered the worst coffee on earth that he'll take only to parch his thirst.

If Max was here, he'd be mid-lecture, right at the part where he looks at him with that _I'm not upset, just disappointed_ look that always gets to Michael even when he pretends it doesn't. But Max is _gone_. Forever. And not only will his mind not let him truly believe that he has lost him, but it also likes to taunt Michael that there is no one to bail him out now.

"Let's see. _Unauthorized use of a vehicle in the first degree_. And second degree. _Auto-stripping_; probable. Could be argued you intended to hide that car in the ditch."

"I don't remember any ditch. Hell; I don't remember any _car_."

"Which brings me to _driving under the influence_. Some assault in there too, judging by the state of your hands and face," Officer Cox adds, with a snort of what might be disbelief. "Oh," Cox says gesturing at the paper in front of Michael again, "here's my personal favorite. You sang the alphabet. At approximately twenty-seven minutes past eleven last night. On the street."

Michael blinks, waiting for the world to make sense again. When Cox doesn't move, Michael clears his throat, shifting the little he can in his seat. The space between it and the table is so small that the movement digs the table in his stomach which, after what counts as food in this _jail_ doesn't sit too well. "Huh?" he says because Cox's words have caught up with him.

"You're in Topeka. It's illegal to sing the alphabet on the street at night. Obviously it's something we overlook most of the time, but quite honestly, Mr. Guerin? What I hear about your singing skills should be a crime in of itself. That, and resisting arrest, threatening to... what does it say?" Cox says pulling the paper close to read before pushing it back. "Ah, yes. Apparently, you threatened our officers with exploding their brains with your mind. You are an exceptionally ordinary human being, Mr. Guerin. I don't think you'll be exploding anyone's brains but your own, if you keep going on like you apparently have been doing."

Michael must give him some kind of look that warrants a reaction because Cox _smiles_, thumbing open the file he has to his side of the desk. "I checked your registration. Rang through to speak to a Sheriff Valenti. She had quite the tale to tell."

Someone needs to shoot him right now. None of this can be happening. Michael's head hurts too much to take anything in. Surely he'll be waking up soon?

Officer Cox sighs then, and even with his addled brain, Michael thinks it sounds like disappointment. "I don't know what kind of relationship you have with your sheriff back home, but it seems you've been allowed to get away with a lot of things for a long time. Time to stop, don't you think?"

Michael says nothing. What is there to say?

"Apparently this time you have rather extenuating circumstances," Cox adds, pushing back against the table as he studies him. "Lost someone pretty important to you?"

Michael refuses to look up. He will not be sharing any details about his brother with anyone, least of all some random _law enforcement_ in another state he's never been to before.

"You realize that, at minimum, you're up, technically, for a Class B misdemeanor. Which, even with your record, which—hilariously—doesn't list a single charge, would be classed as a first offense. Six months, and up to $1,000 in fines."

There is a buzzing in Michael's ears as he starts to understand that Cox is serious. That there really isn't anyone to get him out of this. This is _it_; he's going to end up in some jail away from Isobel, and Alex, and Sanders, who will surely give up on employing him this time for good. And he's going to be _here_. After a bender he can't even remember the smallest of details about.

"I guess I should be thankful, at least, that after your fine is paid, you'll be back out of the state, and off my hands."

What the _hell_ is going on? Michael glares at Cox then realizes he's asked the question out loud.

"What is going on, is that you have been lucky, yet again, Mr. Guerin. You get to languish in the hospitality of our cells until your fine payment clears, and your ride picks you up."

"My what?"

"You don't think we're letting you out of here to _drive_, do you? After your escapades?" Cox asks, signing something on the bottom of a lot of papers that Michael thinks he'll be expected to countersign. He can barely focus on the words in front of him, never mind read through a whole stack of papers. Though he still has more questions; more than his brain can handle or form verbally.

"Your license would be revoked for a minimum of thirty days were you a resident of Kansas. Minimum. Possibly a hell of a lot longer; law enforcement _means_ something here. You'd be on your fifth, sixth, seventh offense by now. Just this _year_, probably," Cox adds, with a derisive snort.

_Please_ make sense, Michael asks, even if he isn't sure who he's asking. The word _fine_ solidifies in his thoughts, making Michael sit up. Despite what the entirety of Roswell thinks about him, he does have a _little_ cash saved. Though how he's supposed to get to it from here, he has no clue.

"So. You'll need to wait. For the fine to clear in the system, for your ride to pick you up—"

"You keep saying that."

"Saying what?"

"_Ride_. What's that about?"

"Like I said. You're in no state to drive. Even when you _do_ sober up. I have no idea what _Sheriff Valenti_ will do with you in terms of your license. I do know that it's about to no longer be my problem. I'll be sending it on."

Ride? Surely Sheriff Valenti isn't going to come here and collect him personally? Maybe _Cam_? Michael likes Cam well enough, but doesn't want to be trapped in a car with her when she's pissed at him for having to come pick him up.

"What about this fine?" Michael asks, begging his thoughts to form some sort of order.

"It's being paid. Probably as we speak."

"But I—"

"You can ask your questions—and say _thank you_—later. Though make no mistake, Mr. Guerin. you so much as put a toe out of line in Topeka, or anywhere in Kansas again, I will personally ensure the entire book is thrown at you. Maybe a whole library."

Michael tries to ask more questions, but is led back to his cell as though he hasn't even said a word. He sinks back down on the bench that was his bed overnight, asking himself what the hell is going on.

* * *

"Ride's here."

Michael sits up sure his back is now the perfectly flat narrow shape of the bench that has been his home for the past twenty-four hours, ignoring the cramp in the back of his calves. He stands slowly to compensate for the way he is aching, staring Officer Cox down without saying a word. He's been fed, and given more bad coffee, and considering all the things he is apparently accused of, has been treated fairly well. If solitary confinement and not so much as an Advil for his still sore head is _well_, that is.

"Get changed," Cox says, passing Michael his clothes, which are filthy. What the hell _has_ he been doing? They are covered in dust, and spilled drink, and there is even blood on the cuff of his plaid shirt. He doesn't want to wear them, though what other options does he have?

Once changed, Michael follows Cox out, signing the last of the paperwork required at the front desk, which gives him his wallet and cellphone back at least. He waits to be told what to do next, when no one else so much as looks at him.

Michael is about to lose his patience after the clock on the wall ticks by twenty-five minutes of standing idle, keeping still despite the urge to pace making his legs twitch. A door swings open behind him, Cox stepping into his view again. He sees the sleeve of an Air Force uniform behind the officer and feels sick.

"Well. That's you processed," Cox says, so blatantly obvious about being glad to see him go. He stands to one side, Michael's heart pressing into his throat when his _ride_ steps forward, glowering at him in cold contempt.

"Let's go," Alex says, in a cold, unfeeling voice, not waiting for Michael to respond before he turns around.

"I'd follow him if I were you," Cox says, gesturing after Alex when Michael is too stunned to move.

Michael is frozen. But the sound of the door slamming shut after Alex brings him to his senses again. He chases after Alex, heart still in his throat. What is supposed to happen now?

* * *

Air Force trucks are far more comfortable than Michael would have thought; not that he has really ever put much thought into it. The seat beneath him is well-cushioned, the headrest at the perfect angle, and the leg room ample. It is an automatic judging by the ease with which Alex is driving, which Michael is thankful for. If he's driven all this way to get him, Michael doesn't like to think what it must have done to his leg.

Alex isn't talking. His eyes are forward, his gaze focused, both hands gripping the steering wheel as he sits poker straight. Michael wants to make a quip about giving himself backache for sitting so stiffly, but there is a weight on his chest that won't let him even attempt to joke. Instead, Michael takes in his surroundings, tries to work out if there are any residual memories from his adventures. He remembers nothing. Michael thinks drinking might have started in Saturn's Rings back in Roswell but even that thought is a little hazy.

Michael counts to keep his mind occupied; looking at cars, people, buildings, trees. He monitors the route they are taking, wondering if Alex's plan now they're on the highway is to drive all the way back without a break. He hopes not. Though it isn't like he can offer to share the drive with him.

"I don't have my license," he blurts out when he remembers, his heart racing in misplaced panic. It is one of the few _normal_ things he has about him; a standard drivers license that he studied and tested for. It is _his_, and Michael doesn't have all that much that he can really call his own. He fidgets in his seat, the comfort of the Air Force truck now gone and replaced with something harsh, and stifling. He feels _trapped_.

"Well. From what I heard, that's hardly a surprise, Michael."

Alex doesn't sound angry, or upset, or give away anything to reveal his mood. Michael _hates_ it, thinks about clawing the door open to get away from the stiff soldier beside him. He always hated watching Alex slip away from him into the machine he used to become, and to be stuck in a moving vehicle with him while it is happening is like being caged with a werewolf about to transform.

It takes Michael far too long to notice the newness of Alex's uniform, and to notice a new rank adorning that heinous fabric. All the blood feels like it is draining away from his head leaving Michael drowsy, for one thing about current events beginning to make sense.

"You re-enlisted," he says, hearing his own voice like it is far away, spoken by someone else.

Alex's jaw works before he answers, and when he goes to speak something changes his mind, responding with only a nod.

"_Why_?" If his voice is now broken and weak, Michael doesn't care. Alex had been _weeks_ away from leaving the Air Force altogether. He'd had hopes that it would be the starting of new things for him, maybe new things for _them_; even if _they_ aren't even friends currently.

"Why do you _think_?" Alex's voice is bitter now making up for the monotone of before, tinged with exasperation that Michael would even ask. _Him_. _He_ is the reason Alex has gone back to that world he hates so much, the world he knows is shaping him into something he never wanted to become. _He_ did this to him. Michael feels _sick_, with ringing in his ears and his breath getting harder and harder to catch.

"..._Michael_?"

He needs to get _out_. He needs to be out of this truck, right now.

"_Please..._"

The truck swerves violently off the highway down a narrow road that they are probably trespassing on. Michael paws at the door unable to latch his fingers on to the handle, his heart hammering so hard he is sure he is about to have a heart attack. He has no idea how or when Alex climbed out of the truck and moved around it to open the door for him, but Michael is thankful as he tumbles out, too weak to do much of anything when Alex grabs him before he falls.

He drops to his knees anyway, violently ill, retching and his eyes stinging with tears. A warm, reassuring hand clasps his shoulder. Michael wants to lean into it but _can't_. He has driven Alex back to the thing he has been trying to escape. How is he supposed to live with himself?

"Are you done, do you think?" Alex asks after Michael spits the vile taste from his mouth. There is no malice to his words though Michael still fights the urge to shrug away from his touch, lash out in some way to get Alex away from him. He'll walk back to Roswell if he has to, just as soon as he can get his bearings. "Michael?"

"Yeah." Michael lets Alex help him to his feet, _needing_ him to for all the strength going from the backs of his knees. Alex guides him back to sit on his seat with his feet sticking out of the truck.

"Water. Saltines. Advil," Alex adds, piling each of the items into Michael's lap and arranging his arm around them so they won't slip. When Michael doesn't move Alex sighs, uncaps the water for him and tears open the Saltine packet, waving both of them until Michael holds his hands out. "Eat. Drink. I need to make a call."

Michael would like to focus on the reassuring way Alex squeezes his knee, though Alex is gone too quickly for him to dwell on it too much. He watches him pace away, hears a tone that tells Michael that Alex is calling his _base_. He _hates_ it, takes a mouthful of water to wash it out and spits up bile that has nothing to do with his vomiting. Alex continues talking, oblivious to his observation, Michael chewing on the saltine not convinced it will even stay down, but determined to try. He wants these Advil in his system _yesterday_. Ideally chased down by some acetone. Michael is pretty sure he won't be able to get his hands on any of that for a while.

"You doing okay?" Alex asks when he walks back to him, with an expression on his face Michael wishes he could understand.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Still hungover?" Alex says when they both know he isn't. He also knows Michael won't talk about what just happened. Michael wants to lash out, to call _Alex_ out on helping him avoid a conversation. But he is _exhausted_, and now defeated by what he's just heard. So he answers with a non-committal nothing and keeps his focus ahead.

Alex doesn't speak for a while. Michael could take out his phone to check for just how long but doesn't, instead trying to make his brain reveal its secrets of the past few days. His last solid memory is of hugging Isobel goodbye after going to Max's, neither of them able to bring themselves to begin clearing his house.

Had he started drinking right after that? Probably. Michael can't be sure. And there is no one he can ask about his whereabouts. Who would notice him drinking when it is the view most people associate with him?

"Why would you re-enlist, Alex?" Michael blurts out without thinking, groaning already for knowing awkward conversations are ahead. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth _shut?_

"How else am I supposed to prevent anyone else from getting their hands on Project Shepherd? To keep my _dad_ away from you? Away from _Isobel_?"

Michael blinks, trying to process what Alex is telling him. "You—wait. _That's_ why you re-enlisted?"

Alex raises an eyebrow turning only enough for Michael to see the corner of it. "Why else did you think I would? Because I _want_ to? What else am I supposed to _do_?"

"But you can't go back for _that_."

"I did. It's done. This isn't up for discussion."

Michael wants to be sick again. "Are you—does that mean you're going back? Out there?" _Please_, he thinks, reliving _years_ of worrying about Alex every time he heard of a military operation overseas. He can't live through that again.

"Did you not just hear me? How can I watch over Project Shepherd if I'm not here? Not in Roswell?"

Michael doesn't mean to be so visible with his relief, sinking further down his seat. "Well. That's something, I guess."

"So. We need to talk."

Michael sits up, rigid, bracing for a barrage of abuse and anger. He has no defense, he doesn't know what to say besides when the fog had lifted from Noah, and Max, and Caulfield, and everything going to hell, he'd found himself in a bed he didn't recognize. That he had stroked his hand over a back he didn't know either, sure he'd never felt so alone. He'd remembered Maria, and the peace he'd hoped to find from the chaos in his head wasn't within her. He'd remembered her accusations of using her that followed when he went to her bar, of the blame for Alex wanting nothing to do with her being his fault as well. Michael remembers still being numb to almost everything; except for the wounded look he'd received from Alex when they had seen one another days after. He'll take it all, have earned it, whatever Alex wants to throw at him.

"Okay."

Alex still pauses before continuing. "The reason I came to see you at the Airstream was to tell you I was re-enlisting. Not for anything else. I was _hoping_, we'd... the point is, _that_ was why I wanted to talk to you. That was it."

Michael can't answer. How can he?

"The only way I know, to keep my dad far away from all of this, is to keep serving—for now. Until I figure out something better, or... I don't know. I don't know anything yet. I just know I can be in a better position to do _something_ if I'm in."

"You can't do all that, go through all that, for _me_, Alex. you can't."

"It's not just for you."

Michael waits for Alex to keep going, clearing his throat to prompt him when he doesn't.

"What we saw at Caulfield. All those things on file in the bunker. I couldn't—this is bigger than—it's bigger than I know how to deal with. And I can't just _leave_ things how they are, knowing there could be all sorts of other projects like this elsewhere. I don't know if there _is_. But I can't take the chance that something like Caulfield happens again."

Again Michael doesn't know what to say to him.

"But that's not what we need to talk about."

"Isn't that _enough_?"

"Not if you're drinking yourself into a ditch in another state it isn't. What the hell, Michael?"

Oh. "Look—"

"I don't know how you got there, or why this happened, or any of this. I _do_ know that you are incredibly lucky that Sheriff Valenti _likes_ you."

"She _likes_ me?" Michael says, incredulous, for remembering the looks she has given him in the past.

"Why do you think you walked away from her cells so many times without so much as a caution? You think that was all on Max?"

Michael's thoughts become even more tangled. His head _hurts_. He begs the Advil to start working. "Okay. Well—"

"She asked _Kyle_ to come get you," Alex adds, with a maniacal grin that Michael doesn't like at all. "I'm honestly trying to picture the two of you in a car together for this many hours."

"So how come _you're_ here?"

"Well. Kyle called me when his mom called him. I volunteered to come get you, pay your fine."

"You paid my _fine_?" Michael asks, appalled by the idea. Doesn't Alex already think he is useless enough?

"Strictly speaking, one of my dad's credit cards for Project Shepherd did. But that's beside the point. You have some work to do when we get back."

In a few hours from now, when he has food in his system and more of those Advil, the world is going to start making sense to Michael. He _needs_ it to. "To... earn back the fine?"

"I have no idea. Sheriff Valenti told me I'm to take you directly to her, and that you need to do whatever she tells you to. Otherwise, she'll process every charge you've dodged over... however many years."

Michael has more questions that he is sure Alex has no answers to. So they go unasked, Michael still trying to process everything and getting nowhere.

"Maybe I should've just stayed in Topeka."

"And faced what? More charges? In a state where you don't know anyone, and no one's looking out for you?"

"Who is in Roswell, Alex?" Michael demands, thinking of all the people who look at him like he is nothing. Mrs. Evans didn't even know who he was at Max's funeral. He is nothing, to everyone, and while on most days Michael is good with that, sometimes he really needs to be something, to someone. He _wanted_ to be something to Alex, but he's made a mess of that now. A lasting one, worse than all the other times.

"Well Sheriff Valenti, for one," Alex says, with a huff of laughter that says _don't you dare_. Do what? Michael wants to ask. Have a moment of feeling sorry for himself? "And for two, Sanders. He's willing to write you whatever statements you need writing for whatever Sheriff Valenti has planned for you. He's a good guy."

Michael would like to pretend for the rest of this drive that he is just going back to his Airstream, where he can sleep off this past few days and then get drunk again for the next few. _Something_ is clearly being arranged for him, that Michael isn't going to have much of a say in. If only he had the fight left in him to resist.

"Isobel, obviously," Alex adds, continuing their conversation as though Michael isn't sat there wondering what hell he is about to descend to. "Liz."

"Maria?" Michael asks, watching Alex recoil like he has been slapped. He doesn't honestly know if he meant for him to have that reaction, or not, but now has guilt to add to the feeling of the world being tugged from under him.

"Would you want her to?"

"What?"

"Be there for you?"

Michael tries to get some clarity in his thoughts so he can honestly answer. "I wanted _peace_. It wasn't about her, or another person."

"It was about being with anyone but me," Alex finishes for him, back to that empty tone that is a nail driven into Michael's heart.

"I'm sorry—"

"I don't need _sorry_," Alex replies, curt and controlled. "You made your choices. They weren't me. And that's fine; like I said, I came to the Airstream to talk about work. Not anything else."

"Alex..."

"The point is, you have people there for you in Roswell. You do. You have me, if you want. As your _friend_, obviously. I don't know how that will work, or even if we can. I don't even know if it's a good idea. All we seem to keep doing is hurt each other."

"I never meant to hurt you."

"Well. You _did_," Alex retorts, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. "And I hurt you. And we keep doing it, over and over. I _still_ don't want anybody else. But I think it's time, that you, and me, we start to deal with our own messes. To deal with... everything that's made us the way we are. Because we're no good for each other like this. We're no good for anyone. I don't even think we're any good for _ourselves_ right now."

These words are rehearsed. Michael can tell from the hitch of Alex's breath, the way he still holds himself rigidly as he drives. They still wound him, even if they are true, and Michael couldn't have put it better himself. He is amazed, really, that Alex had said so much, so honestly, all in one go. Maybe he is still drunk and sleeping it off somewhere. Michael could just be lost in his own head.

"Look," Alex says then, making Michael's stomach clench in anticipation, "I'm tired. I drove most of yesterday, got a hotel for a few hours. My leg hurts. I am... more angry with you for doing this to yourself than I can talk about without us arguing. I really don't _want_ to talk right now. Okay? I think I said everything I needed to. And you should probably get some sleep."

Michael nods, ignoring the ache in his gut for Alex acknowledging just how mad he is at him. It's a first; normally he just _leaves_. This is new territory, new ground shifting. Michael has no idea where he is supposed to stand.

"I'll drive for a few hours," Alex adds. "Then we'll stop for food. I'll probably need to stop a couple of times. But we're getting back to Roswell _tonight_. I need to be on base tomorrow, and you need to report to Sheriff Valenti."

Michael would retort that he doesn't _report_ to anyone, but the world currently doesn't make much sense. So he only nods, letting his head fall against the window and his eyes close, letting the lull of driving help him doze off.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Michael would very much not like to see a cell ever again.

He would like to be angry at Alex for delivering him directly to Sheriff Valenti as she'd asked him to, instead of making an excuse for why it could have waited until morning. Though for how exhausted Alex looked when he drove away, and how much he was limping, Michael hadn't had the heart. And now, at whatever early hour of the morning it is, he still can't feel anger towards Alex. He can't even be angry at Sheriff Valenti, or _Officer Cox_, or Max, or anyone. Hell, he doesn't even have the energy to be mad at himself, which he should be doing.

The coffee Sheriff Valenti gives him is weak, and tepid. The cereal in its one portion sachet dismal. Michael eats anyway, even if he is still pretty full for him and Alex stopping to eat twice on the road.

"This is it, now, Guerin."

Michael takes his time to swallow the awful coffee, making himself make polite eye contact instead of acting out.

"I am doing this because _Max_ would want me to help you. To honor _his_ memory. I'm not entirely sure you deserve even more second chances. Hell knows I've given you enough already."

Michael can't speak. He doesn't know what to expect, only that his words might prove incendiary.

"So," she says, steepling her hands together and giving him a look that Michael is more used to seeing on the face of Kyle. "You will do exactly what I tell you. You will do _everything_, exactly as I ask. If you snark me, or argue, or do a single thing that isn't what I tell you, then your help is gone. I will have every single charge you have ever avoided thrown at you, and more besides. This is not a place for you to sleep off your drink, or get your hands bandaged up when you fight, or for you to come after you've let off some steam. If you can't learn to take responsibility for your actions then frankly you are beyond help. So we're doing this now, my way, or you spend the rest of your life in a cell. A _real_ one. Got it?"

Michael wants to make a _snarky_ retort, but the scowl he receives even before opening his mouth tells Michael that Sheriff Valenti is not joking. Fear begins to trickle through him, a type of fear he has never known. So he nods while finishing his breakfast when she gestures for him to.

"So. Let's get started. I need to get you into some programs—"

"Programs?" Michael repeats in alarm.

"Yes. _Programs_. Plural, probably. We'll have to see. First things first, I need to get you assessed."

"For what?"

"To see if your predilection for drinking yourself into a stupor is in fact an addiction, or because you have no sense of control."

"I'm not—it's not—"

"Then you'll have no objection to an assessment to prove it, will you," Sheriff Valenti says, glaring at him. Michael shakes his head, swallows back the awful taste in his mouth, and waits to hear whatever hell is coming next. "Only problem is," she says, looking through the intimidating stack of paperwork in front of her, "you don't technically have a home address."

"I have my Airstream—"

"Parked up illegally at Sanders; yes, I know. You'll need to write him a letter—"

"_Write_?"

"That's the problem with you spending so much time outside society, Michael. You have no idea about the bureaucracy the rest of us need to go through every single day. Do you know how many files I've had to put together to get _you_ out of trouble until now?"

Michael shakes his head, dread beginning to really seep into him. What is she going to ask of him next?

"So. First, you need to write a letter to Sanders, asking if he is happy to keep the Airstream on site, or give you permission to move it. It's technically _his_, isn't it?" Michael only nods. "Good. So that's the first step. Second, is you and him are going to have to draw up some kind of working contract; that is, if he still wants to employ you. You need to have everything by the books from now on. No more selling stuff on the side, or taking cash under the table."

"Not like I don't file my taxes," Michael blurts out before he can stop himself. He does, and he hates it, hates how disorganized he is every year he does it sat at Max's, or Isobel's, seeing evidence of just how little he earns.

"Well. That's one thing you're doing right. Good. Okay. Next," she says flicking through the papers, tapping the end of her pen against a section that is still blank. "A home address. You need one. And not just on paper. I want evidence that you're living there. I'll want regular updates."

"You can do this?"

"I can do whatever I want, given all the allowances I've had to make for you, and every string I've pulled to get you home. So. A home address. Which lucky soul are you going to live with; assuming you can't pull an actual apartment out of your ass in the next five minutes?"

Michael doesn't _have_ anywhere to go. He says as much, earning himself an exasperated sigh.

"You either ask for help, ask for someone to help you while you get on your feet, or you turn around and go back in that cell while I process you."

"I—"

"Make sure it isn't Alex Manes," she adds with a fierce look for him that Michael can't interpret. "I think he's done more than enough for you, for reasons I _don't_ understand."

She might as well have just kicked Michael in the gut. "I... wouldn't be welcome there anyway."

"Somehow I doubt that," she says, mumbling it half under her breath. "Though he has enough of his own issues to be dealing with. So? Find somewhere. Tell me someone _else_ who could do this for you for now."

It takes Michael three attempts to dial Isobel's number, the burning self-loathing and mortification he feels when needing to ask for help almost enough to make Michael return to the cells willingly. He explains to Isobel the situation as best he can, though first endures her fury at him for what he's put her through by making her worry. He hadn't even thought to call her on the drive home, so lost in feeling sorry for himself that the idea hadn't even occurred to him. That he then has to wait for Isobel to send written confirmation that he is allowed to live in her home, and that she needs to pick him up; Michael things he might die from embarrassment alone.

* * *

"I am _not_ an alcoholic."

Isobel rolls her eyes, slapping him on the arm and gesturing back at his dinner plate, watching him over the rim of her glass of wine. "Eat."

"I'm _not_," Michael insists, even if the _assessment_ he was driven to by Isobel says otherwise. Michael is only thankful that the medical that accompanied the assessment didn't involve drawing blood. It isn't just that it would risk revealing _what_ he is, but Michael really, really doesn't like needles. He has never had health insurance so has never had to endure any such procedures, but even the thought of a needle going into his skin makes him sweat.

Everything else was the exact torture he has been imagining for himself today. From hours spent languishing in a cell because Isobel was working and Sheriff Valenti wouldn't let him out of her sight, to Isobel's loving fury at him for disappearing, fussing over his still sore knuckles and ripping him a new one on the way to the hospital. And then the assessment itself. Michael shudders for even thinking about it, new lows of embarrassment still curling through his gut. And that was just for a few questions, over-clothes examinations, and thorough cleaning of the wounds on his hands. Michael can still feel the bruise on his jaw for being made aware of how bad it is, by _Kyle_ of all people. That Kyle was the one to do the assessment at the request of his _mother_ is a fresh kind of awful that might just torture Michael for the rest of his life.

"Well," Isobel says with that clipped tone and bitter smile that makes Michael feel like the world's biggest disappointment. "I'm pretty sure you aren't an alcoholic either. But I don't think you have any choice but to play along. It's that, or _jail_, Michael. Actual, literal jail."

"Yeah. I know that."

"So. No wine. No beer. No acetone. Nowhere near the Wild Pony—"

"Not exactly welcome there anymore." He isn't welcome in many places in Roswell as it is, but the last few weeks have made where he can go even smaller.

"Well. You—"

"Iz. _Please_?" He can't take a lecture, or a reminder of more of the wrongs he has done. If he is asked even so much as his thoughts on what the weather might be like tomorrow, Michael might just bury his head in his hands and start rocking where he is sat. It's too much. Never has he spent so many hours _talking_ about himself. Michael is _raw_ from it all. So raw that if he could drink acetone he would have drunk about three bottles by now. He can't go for a drive to clear his head either, both for his license being suspended, and for being under an unofficial kind of house arrest.

Isobel's house is... unexpected. Michael has been here for dinners and birthdays and other things, but always felt like an outsider even when invited in. He is both surprised and not surprised at all that Isobel's careful facade outside of the house is just that; a facade. The bedding on the couch tells him she isn't comfortable sleeping in what was her and Noah's bedroom. The photo albums of her and Max growing up along with the few photos including _him_ are covering the coffee table. When he'd used the downstairs bathroom when they arrived, all of her things were crammed in there. Michael wonders if she hasn't been upstairs in a while. Will she feel more secure in her own home for having _him_ staying? He hopes he can offer Isobel at least that.

"Fine," she says, nodding at their now-empty plates. "Help me clear up?"

"I can do it."

Isobel nods, leaving Michael to wash their dishes, take out a full trash bag that _clinks_ with bottles when he lifts it, and wipe down the kitchen surfaces by the time she comes back through, already in pyjamas. That she says nothing, only takes a notebook from a stack at the end of the coffee table, leaves Michael _aching_ for his sister to feel whole again. There is a haunted look in her eyes that screams loudly about how confused she is about Noah, and how much she is missing Max. Michael can't help. And now, he's made her worry about _him_ on top of everything. Michael already knew he was the worst, but even for him this is a new low.

"Okay. So, we need to fix things for you," she says once they are on the couch, and Michael is watching her fold back the first page of the notebook, decisively clicking her pen.

"I don't need fixing."

"I didn't say you. I said _for_ you."

It's the same thing. Michael doesn't have the will or strength to argue.

"So. Your schedule."

Michael sinks deeper into the couch cushions really not ready to go over all this again. Though for Isobel, he'll tolerate it. If she can focus on the problem that is him, maybe it will help clear her head. He listens to her read it out, sure the nightmare he must be having has to break soon. Under Sheriff Valenti's _agreement_ Michael is to work three five-hour shifts at Sanders a week, have two _sessions_ a week which will involve counseling, and one accompanied weekly visit to a _meeting_ that Michael could argue he doesn't need, about alcohol dependency. He'll also have to commit to a certain number of hours of online study, once he has had a further assessment; this time for his _skills_.

"I'll be busy," he says when Isobel has finished reading out the times and locations of the places he'll need to be. He's going to have to ask for _more_ help to get there since he can't drive himself, or even leave the house unaccompanied. There will soon not be a person left in Roswell he can look in the eye.

"Not _that_ busy. This works out to what; not even three full days? Before the studying thing. Which could be _good_? Not like you don't have the smarts."

"Well. I guess if I'm staying with you, the least I can do is cook you dinner, or something," Michael says in doubt. He is a decent cook, not that he gets that many opportunities to cook for anyone. Though the very idea that Isobel might let him loose in her pristine kitchen is bordering on hilarious.

"We'll split cooking. And cleaning. And... we'll figure it out."

"I can decorate if you want, Iz. If you want this place looking different. If it helps."

Isobel keeps her gaze away from him. "Well. I suppose if that helps keep you out of getting arrested again, it's not the worst idea."

"Get me paint, paper; whatever you want." He has to do something to earn his time here. If he can, Michael will transform Isobel's home into something out of everything she's ever dreamed of. He has to make this right for her.

"I will. So. Michael."

"What?" Michael knows that tone. And that there can't be, surely, anything else for him to talk about. Isobel clearly has other ideas. Ideas he isn't even considering. He watches in horror as tears fill her eyes.

"I can't lose you too, Michael; I just _can't_." The croak in her voice is painful to hear, but for the way she loses her fight against crying, it just about breaks his heart. Michael slides across the couch throwing his arm around her shoulders, shocked when she turns her face into the crook of his neck and clings on to him, sobbing her heart out.

Michael doesn't know what to do. She hasn't ever broken like this at all, not to this extent anyway; not for Noah, or Max, or anything. All he thinks is that he can hold her, run his hands over her arms and back mumbling pointless words into her hair, letting Isobel cry all her agony out. Agony that _he_ has contributed to. How can he ever right this particular wrong?

Isobel continues to hold on to him after her tears, hiccuping and trembling until the room falls to silence. Even then, Michael is afraid of breathing too loud. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, slotting his hands into hers when she sits back up. "We're going to be okay," she says with a watery smile, squeezing his hands. "You, and me. We're going to be just fine. We'll make Max _proud_ of us."

"He was proud of you anyway."

"He was proud of you too. In his own way," Isobel says, looking close to tears again. Michael doesn't believe her, only holds on to her hands. "And we will _make_ this right. Everything."

"We, uh. We should... we should probably think about his house. What to do with it. What—"

"I am not ready for that. I can't _deal_ with that," Isobel says, anger in her voice that Michael isn't expecting. "_Mom_ did it all. Already. Gave stuff away, donated furniture to Goodwill."

"When did this happen?" Michael asks. How long has he been gone?

"Yesterday? Day before? Maybe earlier? I don't know," Isobel says, her voice breaking again, hand up over her mouth as she tries to stifle her tears. "I drove over there, just to see if I could make myself go _in_. She put the house up for sale already."

"What? How the hell does she have the right to do that?"

"I think she's just dealing with it in her own way. I don't think she's thinking about _anything_."

Even Max's house is being stolen from him. He is only glad of the few possessions they took from Max's themselves, currently in boxes in a corner of Isobel's living room.

"And what about you? How are _you_ dealing?" Michael says once Isobel has control over her tears.

"How are _you_ dealing?" she retorts with a glint of her anger at him flaring, before she closes her eyes and visibly holds her breath before she can look at him again.

"Obviously, I'm _not_."

"Well. Obviously. I suppose this little adventure of yours turned out as good as it could, to help you with that."

She means _counseling_. She means _talking_ to someone about all of his issues, not just Max. The urge to _run_ grabs him again, a vice like grip in his gut that whispers at Michael to drink Isobel's house dry then take her car keys and get the hell out of Roswell. Though he won't; not for the way Isobel is _still_ clinging on to his hand like she doesn't think she can trust to let him out of her sight. He squeezes for her to let go, raises his arm so she knows to tuck into his side, and begin what will be a long, difficult night of reminiscing about Max.

* * *

He can't keep _busy_ enough.

In the three days he has been living at Isobel's, Michael hasn't let himself stop moving. He has worked, read, done the online things he is _required_ to do, and begun to clear rooms ready for decorating. The easiest of these things has been working; Michael knows what to do with engines and mechanical parts. Isobel has driven him into the scrapyard both times, and picked him up after the end of his two shifts worked so far. Being with Sanders has been harder. Michael hasn't made many apologies in his life; nothing sincere, anyway. He made himself look Sanders in the eye when he did; for leaving him in the lurch because of his _bender_, for Sanders having to write him whatever the hell he did for Sheriff Valenti, for letting him keep his job, and the Airstream here, and anything else that came to mind when the words wouldn't stop tumbling out. Sanders had looked at him without commenting, rolling his eyes, then telling him to go back to work. Michael knows he accepted his apology for the way he sidled up to him minutes later with a mug of coffee and one of the donuts he likes so much.

The online assessments Sheriff Valenti has had him doing are difficult; not for the complexity of their content, but for having to answer so many things about himself. Michael has no idea what any of the numerous forms he has completed are supposed to assess but he has done them all, even without complaint.

The hardest part of all has really been trying to put Isobel's place in to some kind of order. She doesn't feel comfortable sleeping in the bedroom that was hers and Noah's so that is the first place to decorate. He has stripped everything out, ignored the contents of the closets because there are some things a brother really doesn't need to know about his sister's sex life, and even swapped the beds between that bedroom and the spare. None of these tasks are difficult on their own; even going through Max's things beginning to find them homes around the house hasn't been too difficult. It is the time he has in between, or while keeping busy, when he has room to think. Michael hates it, for memories replaying, for fears resurfacing, for hearing every single thing he thinks loud and clear.

Michael might be adamant that he truly, honestly, really does not have a drinking problem. But the urge to drink these past couple of days has been so strong, he even found himself eye to eye with a bottle of acetone in Isobel's kitchen cupboards. It took strength he is convinced is a fluke to not lift it down and drain in one gulp. Instead, he'd paced around the yard flexing his fingers in fists, until the urge was gone.

His hand is a constant reminder of Max, and of Alex, and of Jesse Manes. Every flex of long-stiff knuckles leaves a roaring in his ears that might be the lingering of his own voice, him charging across the shed to save Alex from getting hurt. And when it isn't his voice it is Max's calling out as he surges power through him to snap bone back into place, reattach tendons, making him whole while also breaking him apart in the process. Michael refuses to acknowledge the number of times he has found himself on his knees in some corner of Isobel's gasping for air.

But none of these things are difficult compared with what he is about to face. Michael paces every inch of the living room waiting for Cam to pick him up to take him to his first session. Whatever the hell _session_ is supposed to mean. He hates the feeling of being babysat, and that his freedom has been taken from him, and that he can't even climb into a car and driving himself to this awful meeting that will no doubt mess with his head. He hasn't slept for two nights for worrying what kind of things they will ask of him. What will they have him do to prove that he won't let anyone down ever again? Michael knows his word doesn't count for much anymore but for the look on Alex's face when he picked him up in Topeka, and for Isobel's sadness ever since he got home, Michael knows he can't keep doing this anymore. Even if he doesn't know what he's supposed to do instead of it.

Cam nods at him as he climbs in her car, pulling away before he is even really settled. "It's an hour, right? This thing you're going to?" she asks, which is something he has always appreciated about Cam. There are no wasteful words with her, only what feels like a conversation that is picked up from where it last left off without difficulty.

"Yeah. I think so."

"Okay."

"Are you... taking me back? To Isobel's?"

"I am on Guerin babysitting duty today, yes," she agrees with a smile that is for him but not turned in his direction. Michael doesn't even try to retort.

"Okay. Thanks."

She expects more from him, clearly, for the slight huff of breath he hears. "Are you ready for this?"

"Not like I had a lot of choice."

"I guess you ran out of choices, and chances."

"I guess I did."

"Do you even know what you're doing here?" Cam asks, which Michael takes to mean the session she is driving him to.

"Nope. Not a clue." Michael watches Cam drum her thumbs on the steering wheel, quiet as though she is considering what to say.

"So. About Max—"

"Can we not?"

"He was a good guy," Cam continues as though he hasn't even spoken. "Not all the time. Way too earnest, tried too hard to be nice. But good, anyway."

What is Michael supposed to say to that? "Yeah. Yeah, he was. All of those things."

"What would he have to say about all this?" she adds, smiling mostly to herself. Michael imagines she is trying to hear Max's words, his out loud objections and irritation that Michael has got himself into this mess in the first place.

"Something along the lines of why'd you put yourself in this situation, _Michael_? How many times am I gonna have to bail you out, _Michael_?"

"Well. He isn't here to bail you out this time, is he? Might be worth holding on to that thought."

"What? That Max isn't here to give me a lecture on how I'm wasting my life?"

"You are wasting your life," Cam replies. "It's yours to waste. Yours to do what you want with."

"Not according to Sheriff Valenti."

"Not when it involves violating a whole range of laws, no. But generally, it's yours. Might want to think about how many people are going out of their way to try to help."

"Shouldn't need the help. I don't need it," Michael tells her, feeling sick as she pulls her car into a parking lot outside the building where he is to have his _session_.

"Michael," she says as she pulls on the brake, staring up at the building in interest. "Everyone needs help. You just need to be brave enough to ask for it. Now. Go. I'll be around here about an hour from now. Go," she insists when Michael doesn't immediately move.

Michael's legs are filled with lead as he makes his way into the building, signing a form at the desk, then waiting to hear his name called out. When it is, the strength threatens to leave his knees, but he makes himself stand, following a man who looks far too put-together to be dealing with a mess like _him_. Michael tells himself to switch off, to get outside his own head to deal with whatever this session is going to throw at him, pleading with his heart to stop hammering as he steps into an office and closes the door behind him.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Isobel's house is too quiet. Michael lets himself in after Cam drops him off, instinctively holding his breath for how still everything is. He sees a note on the table that tells him Isobel won't be back until late, and that he should cook something for himself. Michael doesn't know if he is more thankful to be alone after his _session_, or if he should be frustrated that there is no one here to talk to. He tries to wash away all the words spoken this afternoon, and the feeling that his skin is just too tight, showering for far longer than he needs, because he really can't face the thought of _after_. What is he supposed to do? He can't be alone with all these new thoughts.

There is a fluttering sensation in his chest that Michael tries to outpace by doing laundry in between cooking a quick plate of scrambled egg that he eats with a pile of toast. He debates starting painting now that Isobel has finally chosen the colors for her bedroom, but then thinks the smell will be too much for them to sleep with overnight. Michael wants a drink, or a wall to punch, or miles of road to burn rubber into. He can't do anything. He won't interrupt Isobel out for the first fun thing he thinks she's attended in weeks, but Michael also doesn't really trust himself to be alone. He doesn't want to _be_ alone. If he is, Michael knows he will be out of this house within the hour and getting himself into all kinds of trouble just to feel something.

He doesn't mean to call Alex. He only meant to scroll through previous messages, even look over the two pictures he has of him stored on his phone. But without really any conscious thought his hand is shaking as he holds his phone to his ear, perched on the edge of the couch after pacing back and forth trying to avoid this call. Which he ends, before Alex can even pick up, suddenly cursing and back to pacing again.

Of course Alex calls him back.

"What is it?" Alex asks the moment the call connects. Michael sags in relief for hearing his voice; even if it sounds clipped and impatient.

"Nothing," Michael says, pinching his eyes and swallowing back the lump that is now in his throat. "I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have called."

"Do you need something? Are you okay?"

He isn't, not by a long shot, but Alex doesn't need to know that. Can't he tell from his voice that he isn't? "No. No, it's fine."

"You had your first meeting today," Alex says, his voice now shifting in realization to something softer. Does all of Roswell know his business, Michael thinks, wanting to lash out. But he doesn't, only makes himself take a slow breath before answering.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"How was it?"

"Hell?"

Alex sighs into the phone, and Michael can hear him shifting around.

"Listen, Alex—"

"Is Isobel there?" Alex asks, his voice more muffled this time like it is in the crook of his neck as he does whatever is more important than talking to him.

"Uh, no. No; she's out tonight."

How can Michael feel Alex's tension through their call?

"Okay. I'll see you soon."

"Alex—"

"I'll see you soon," Alex repeats, ending the call before Michael can object any further. He stands there looking at his phone in disbelief, ringing in his ears when he registers what is happening.

It takes Alex less than fifteen minutes to get to Isobel's. Michael doesn't ask where he's been, or ask why he came, only opening the door to him in such relief to see him that it is agony not trying to hug Alex before he even gets inside.

"Decorating?" Alex says pointing at the paint cans beside the stairs.

"Uh. Yeah. Do you want coffee, or something? Juice?"

"Coffee?"

Michael nods, now arguing with himself to get away from Alex as quick as he can. Alex follows him to the kitchen, and out of the corner of his eye Michael watches Alex looking around him in interest.

"It's nice here," Alex says as Michael pours all of his attention into making coffee as though this is a complicated engine to be put back together instead.

"Yeah. It is."

"Kyle said you were here."

Michael flinches for hearing Valenti's name but tries to hide it. "For now."

"It's good. That you're not alone. Either of you."

"Isobel hasn't kicked me out yet," Michael agrees, turning to lean back against the counter. "So. Alex."

"I didn't think I should message you. I didn't know if you'd want me to," Alex says, moving to lean on another counter. They might as well be on different continents for how far away Alex feels. Though Michael does try his hardest to answer him.

"I tried to message a bunch of times. Didn't know what to say. Thanks for coming to pick me up, I guess, would've been a start."

Alex gives him a curious smile, curling his hands around the counter either side of him. "How was today?"

"My _session_?"

Alex nods. Michael stalls for time messing with their coffee cups, willing the machine to work faster.

"Well. I hated it."

"Obviously."

Michael plays back the conversation with _therapist Keith_ ignoring the bile in his throat for some of the things Keith had made him say out loud. What can he share with Alex, without really revealing himself? "Well. Looks like I'm stuck with going once a week indefinitely. Which isn't as bad as I thought; they'd signed me up for twice a week. I can't be that bad, right?"

Alex doesn't say anything, only continues to watch him. Michael holds on to the information that he still has a _group_ session once a week to help with his drinking, because he is trying to pretend to himself that it isn't happening either. But he needs to keep talking; silence is _hard_. Michael begs the coffee machine to give him something to do. "I even got _homework_."

Alex allows himself a flicker of a smile before replying. "Doing what?"

"Stupid stuff."

"Like what?"

"I'm supposed to write down all the things I'd say to someone if I didn't care about the consequences," Michael tells him, which is mostly the truth. He's paraphrased a little, replaced the 'if I didn't fear rejection' because that just makes him sound so weak. "Starting with Max, obviously, since he's not here anyway. Doesn't matter what _he_ thinks." Even if to Michael, what Max things sometimes matters the _most_.

Michael has no idea what these sessions are supposed to achieve. He read through all the material Sheriff Valenti sent on to him, and is convinced their only purpose is to punish him for all the things he's done through sheer embarrassment. Keith was calm, and kind, though also insistent. Michael tried his usual tactics to avoid difficult subjects, but Keith has a disappointed look that could out-compete Max's. He tells Alex as much, which earns him a snort of laughter that puts more relief in Michael's heart than anything else has today.

"So. What else is happening with you?" Alex asks once they are sat on the couch, toying with his coffee cup like he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"Kyle didn't tell you?" Michael retorts before he can stop himself.

"Only that you were here, and that he'd seen you," Alex says, his face calm, and neutral, and as a result making Michael squirm. "But I asked you. Not him."

So Michael tells him. Everything. About his groveling apology to Sanders, how working with him is the only thing he doesn't feel off-balance for doing currently. How guilty he feels about worrying Isobel, even if he talks around the houses to avoid using the word _guilt_. He tells Alex about Isobel's color schemes, how Mrs. Evans has basically stolen Max's memory from him and Isobel for wanting to move on so quickly. He _doesn't_ tell Alex that it is _him_ who keeps him company when he can't sleep—which is most nights. Or how many times he has composed messages to him, rewording apologies until they are perfect, before deleting them altogether. Or that he misses him, more than he will ever bring himself to admit out loud.

"So. What about you?" Michael asks when he feels like he has talked himself out.

Alex pushes his long drunk coffee cup on to the table. "Me?"

"Yeah, Alex."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Michael says, shrugging, and slapping his hands down on his thighs. "How's work? Your leg? The cabin? Whatever it is you do these days when you're not working."

Alex nods, slow and considering. Michael imagines he is picking through all his thoughts deciding which to share. "Work; same as always."

"Is that good?"

Alex blinks, surprised. "Sure?"

"You never really talk about it."

"That's because any time I tried, you shut me down," Alex retorts. Which is fair. Even if Michael does have his reasons. Even if talk of Alex's work has always been a constant reminder that Alex is going to leave him behind.

"Well. I'm asking now.

Alex licks his lips, which Michael is far more aware of than he should be. "What do you want to know?"

"I don't know, Alex," Michael replies, trying not to get exasperated. Why do people even _like_ talking so much?

"Most of it's classified—"

"But do you enjoy it?"

"I do. I do; I enjoy it. I enjoy the parts where I'm helping people. I like solving puzzles, and using new technologies that won't be available to the public for years. I like all of that a lot."

"So what _don't_ you like?" Michael asks, already sure the answer is one Alex won't ever say out loud.

"I don't like when it isn't helping people. When I'm too late to help, or when there are things beyond my control."

Michael wants to ask if Project Shepherd falls into that category, but doesn't know if he has the strength for that as well tonight. Exhaustion has hit, and it is taking all he has not to show Alex that by yawning. Of course Alex notices anyway, already politely standing.

"You don't have to go," Michael says, when what he really means is, _please don't leave_. Alex is going anyway, taking their cups through to the kitchen to leave on the counter beside the sink.

"I have an early morning anyway."

"Work?"

"Actually, no," Alex says, checking his phone before sliding it back into his pocket. "I said I would meet Liz for breakfast. I don't need to be at the base before lunch."

"Just you two?" Michael blurts out, gritting his teeth too late. Alex's face flickers with an emotion that might be anger that he hides just a second later.

"Yes. There's this cafe near her new lab she wants to try out."

"That's... good."

"It's absolutely nothing to do with me if you want to contact _her_," Alex adds. Michael knows his rehearsed tone, knows that isn't what he means at all.

"Yeah, well. I don't exactly have all that many people round here wanting to talk to me." Michael doesn't even know what he would say to Maria. Sorry is would he should say, and how much he'd prefer they went back to the sort-of friendship they were working up to before. Her lack of contact tells Michael everything he needs to know, however. Michael wonders what it means when he doesn't even feel the need to try.

"I mean it," Alex says, bitterness creeping into his tone as he forces his mouth into something that is probably supposed to be a smile. "If she makes you happy—"

"It wasn't about that. Not all of it. Not—it wouldn't have worked anyway. But Alex; she's your friend—"

"There are some things that friendship really can't survive," Alex retorts in a clipped tone that says this is the end of the subject. Of course Michael has to push a little more.

"I don't want to be the reason you aren't friends anymore."

"It's about a little more than just you. Maybe it started with that, but there are things—I don't think this is something we should talk about. Not now. I think—I need to go."

It shouldn't wound Michael, that Alex is hurrying away from him yet again, especially as he came here to keep him company with no prompting at all. Even after he has hurt him as he has. But that ache of being left has set into his bones already, a punch to his gut that leaves him squaring his shoulders in his fight to ignore it. Alex spinning around quickly makes him stagger back in surprise.

"If you need anything. Or you just want someone to talk to. Or there are things you—if you need _me_. Please call? Or message, or... I'm here, Michael. Or, I can be. If you'll let me."

Michael nods because he doesn't trust himself to talk, hoping Alex will see the _thank you_ in his eyes. For Alex's flicker of a smile, he thinks that he does.

"Okay," Alex says, licking his lips again. "I need to go. But... take care, Michael. Okay? You need to—_I_ need you to be okay."

Again Michael nods, swallowing back the lump in his throat. Alex really does need to leave now, before he sees him cry.

"Can I hug you?" Alex says then, tears flooding _his_ eyes as his lip trembles. Michael drops his head, still nodding, still not wanting to be seen. He gasps against Alex's shoulder for the force of his arms around him, clinging on just as tight.

It is an agony to watch him drive away just minutes later, and Michael now needs to be on his own. The last thing he wants is Isobel coming home to find him like this. Michael leaves her a note, holds it together until secure in his room. Michael makes it to the bed, his body shaking with the strength of his own mournful sobs.

* * *

The universe truly hates him. It must do. What other reason would he be halfway through painting Isobel's spare bedroom—what is currently _his_ room—and hear a knock at the door that reveals _Kyle Valenti_ on the other side of it? Kyle doesn't look all that pleased to see him either but he attempts something that is almost a smile.

"What?" Michael asks when he opens the door. He has been living with Isobel a week. He's been to his session with_ Keith_, and lived through the ordeal of a meeting for people with drinking problems which absolutely does not include him. Michael is tense because of the skills assessment he needs to go to, tomorrow. And worse still, his fifteen hours work with Sanders are done for the week, meaning Michael wants to climb the walls with boredom. And now _Valenti_? "What possible reason could you have for being here?"

"Maybe I'm here to gloat. Get a decorator. That, or take blackmail pictures," Kyle replies doing his best to look unfazed instead of pissed off. He has a point though. Michael is wearing his oldest, rattiest pair of jeans cut off into shorts, his hair pulled back from his face in a messy sort-of ponytail to keep it out of the way while he paints. There is a smear of paint up his left arm, and a splash against his chest that is going to be a bitch to get out of the hair there later.

"What do you _want_?"

Kyle rolls his eyes, barging into Isobel's uninvited. Michael is so surprised it takes him a minute to realize Kyle is in the house, absently closing the door and following him in.

"Mom wanted me to check on you."

"You know. She could just put one of those ankle tag things on me if she's so worried about me leaving the house." Michael is making them _coffee_. Without even realizing. Since when does he do anything nice for _Kyle_?

"She _wants_ to help you. I don't know why, personally. After what you did to Alex—"

"You wanna talk about people doing things to Alex?" Michael says, whirling on Kyle with a surge of fury boiling beneath his skin. He wants to _punch_ him.

Kyle, annoyingly, doesn't even flinch. Hell, he looks _amused_. "If you're still talking about me being a dick in high school—"

"Yeah. I am."

"That is between me, and Alex. I've apologized. I'm doing my best to make amends, and I'm doing my best to be his friend. Hell knows he could do with some friends around here right about now."

"_Friends_, huh?" Michael says, glowering at him. It is _not_ jealousy whispering at him to lash out, but the sheer fury he feels for all the time he thinks Alex is spending with _Kyle_.

There is a flicker of surprise on Kyle's face right before he breaks into a smile. "Jealous?"

"No."

"Good. Because after what _you_ did to him—"

"Don't even—"

"You don't get to dictate anything about Alex's life," Kyle finishes for him, now with a glint in his eye that Michael hasn't seen in him before. Protective, and angry, like it is _him_ who is the threat to Alex.

"That why you're here?" Michael says, going back to making coffee because he needs to do something with his hands that doesn't involve throttling Kyle. "Telling me to back off?"

"I'm here because my _mom_ wants me to make sure you're doing okay. Make sure you aren't drinking. Or whatever it is you do that keeps getting you out of your own mind stupid."

Michael prowls towards Kyle where he is stood with his arms folded, leaning beside the kitchen sink. "You wanna breathalyze me, or something?"

"Funny. Yeah, actually. I think that might put her mind at ease that you're not taking advantage of her kindness."

"_Kindness_? Putting me under this illegal house arrest—"

"Instead of in jail where, after everything, you probably belong right now? Michael. You hot wired a car. Drove across state. Got drunk out of your _mind_. You could've hurt people. Judging by the mess of you when you came in, you _did_ hurt people. Pretty convenient you're choosing _now_ to give a damn about the law."

"You wanna breathalyze me?" Michael says, ignoring all of what Kyle's just said. It's not like it doesn't keep him awake currently for trying to remember what he did.

Kyle pulls a breathalyzer kit from his jacket pocket. "Yeah."

Michael breathes in his face, hard, mortified with his own behavior yet not letting his face show it at all.

Kyle doesn't flinch. "Seems like your oral hygiene's just fine. You don't _smell_ like you're rotting, anyway. Maybe could use a breath mint, though."

Michael wills the coffee machine to work faster. The quicker they drink, the quicker Kyle will be gone.

"It's this, or she'll come take you back to the cells for not cooperating," Kyle adds, waving the kit.

He survived an examination by Kyle, Michael tells himself, he can do this as well. He listens to Kyle's instructions doing exactly as asked, pouring their coffee the moment he is free.

"See? Wasn't so bad. There is officially no alcohol in your body, Guerin. Well done."

Michael pushes one of the coffee mugs into his hand. "Now what?"

"What do you mean, now what?"

"You here to run tests on me, or something?"

"I just did."

"That _it_?" Michael doesn't believe it. Not for a second.

"Yeah. That's it."

Kyle drinks his coffee, scalding and all, watching Michael as he does in silence, which is the _worst_ thing. Being observed, and probably judged, while feeling so caged; Michael loathes it.

"So. Is this gonna be a regular thing?" Michael says when he can't stand the quiet.

"Probably."

"Great."

"We can play tic tac toe next time, if you want."

"What I want, is my _life_ back," Michael growls at him. It isn't much of one. He has an Airstream to sleep in, cash in his pocket, a job he is good at, and little else. Right now he has a sister who needs him. Beyond that, Michael has nothing. Which doesn't matter. He just wants not to be in _this_ situation.

Kyle's laughter is cold, and mocking. "Life? Michael. What life?"

"None of your damn business."

"That's right. It isn't. What you do with your life is of exactly no interest to me at all. Apart from when you do shit that hurts my _friend_."

"That's none of your damn business either," Michael spits back at him. He is not talking about how he has wronged Alex with _Kyle Valenti_. No way.

"Oh, but I'm making it my business," Kyle says, that glint in his eye angrier still. "Whatever mess you're in, you aren't dragging him with you. Don't even try it."

"And what are you gonna do about it?"

"Appeal to someone who, apparently, _loves_ Alex not to hurt him any more than he's already done?" Kyle says, raising an eyebrow.

Michael will not show how devastated he is at the reminder of him hurting Alex. Not to _him_. "Well. Lucky for you, seems like Alex doesn't want anything to do with me."

Alex, who hasn't called, or texted since his visit, yet won't leave Michael's thoughts.

"You know. I kind of get it," Kyle says, which throws Michael completely. "You went through some shit back there. Must've been out of your mind with grief, and whatever. I'm betting, you weren't even thinking about the consequences of trying to make a thing of it with one of Alex's best friends. I know _she_ didn't think his friendship was worth anything," Kyle adds, with an icy smile that tells Michael his fury isn't just directed at him.

"I never meant to hurt anyone," Michael tells him. He _didn't_. Michael would take back so many things since Caulfield, but he can't.

"I'm sure. But you did."

"Think I don't know that?"

"I _think_ when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself, maybe you'll realize all the things being done around here to _help_ you."

Michael has no response to that.

"Anything else you want? Need? Any ailments you want to discuss with your not-doctor?" Kyle says then, checking his phone. Michael is too angry to trust himself to answer, so only shakes his head. "Good. Well. It's been real. See you soon, Michael."

Michael watches, dazed, as Kyle lets himself out of Isobel's, already replaying the few words of their conversation, and telling himself to go to hell.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

"You? Again?"

Michael opens the door to Valenti the next morning once again having him push by to let himself inside. At least he has no comments to make about his appearance. Michael is dressed and pacing and ready for his _skills assessment_ to be a distant memory. The last thing he needs is _Valenti_ reminding him of all the worst things about himself.

"So. Alex tells me you're a nervous eater," Kyle says, tossing him a packet that turns out to be a bagel. Bacon and cream cheese. Michael's favorite.

"I'm what?"

"You eat. When you're nervous," Kyle says, practically inhaling a bagel of his own.

"Alex sent you? To feed me?" Michael asks in doubt. Though the bagel does look really, really good. And _is_, when he takes a large bite. Yes; this is exactly what he needs.

"Nope."

Oh. "No. No way." This can't be happening.

"That's right," Kyle says with the kind of bright smile that makes Michael want to draw the blinds. "I'm the lucky one who gets to chaperone you today."

Michael, honestly, would rather die, than be stuck in a car with Kyle Valenti, when already nervous, and going to a place he doesn't want to go. That he doesn't have a license to drive himself, and isn't even being let out on his own; this is a violation of every right Michael has ever heard of. This whole thing is a _mess_.

"Don't have anything better to do with your day? Do you even work at the hospital anymore?" Michael tries, flinging his anger in every misplaced direction because like _hell_ can he keep it to himself.

Kyle, deliberately infuriating, only shrugs. "Shift don't start for a few hours yet. Besides. I volunteered for this."

The bite of bagel Michael swallows almost lodges in his throat. "You? Volunteered?"

"Let's just say, I thought I owed you an apology for yesterday. I was a little rough on you. Which, you deserve, a lot of. But not all. You've been through a lot. None of this could've been easy. I'm sorry I was a little... _harsh_."

Contrition is a strange look on Kyle. Michael doesn't like it. Though, actually, Michael feels like Kyle's tone might have been just about right. He's been thinking on it, absorbing every word, replaying them all until he drove himself to cleaning both bathrooms until they squeaked with cleanliness, just for something to do. He even spoke with Isobel about some of the stuff Kyle's _words_ put in his thoughts yesterday. Michael feels better for talking, even if he hates to admit it. And there is no way he will with Kyle.

"Right."

"Maybe Alex tore me a new one as well," Kyle adds, now properly wincing. "But it was mostly me wanting to say sorry. I_ think_."

That doesn't really help Michael either. Why would Alex care about someone saying something to upset _him_? After everything?

"I have... no clue what I'm supposed to say to any of this."

"So don't say anything. Grab whatever you need, and let's get out of here."

"Not gonna let me eat my bagel first?"

"You can't eat and run? C'mon," Kyle says, slapping Michael's arm in a way that is far too familiar. "Let's go."

* * *

Michael returns to Kyle's car after his _skills assessment_ in a daze. He slumps into the passenger seat aware of Kyle staring at him and the traffic passing by outside, still clutching hold of his paperwork in disbelief.

"Well?"

He wants him to _speak_? Michael doesn't think he has words left in him after everything that poured out of him this last couple of hours. He hears Kyle's sigh of frustration and the slide-click of his seatbelt, absently doing the same. The car lurches into traffic, Kyle driving in silence; though only until they come to a stoplight.

"What did they say? You the genius everyone always thought you were back in high school?"

"I'm not a _genius_."

"Bet you scored pretty high in those IQ tests, though, right?" Kyle says. Michael doesn't mean to wince for it, though for almost two hours of tests—IQ, psychometric, a bunch of others Michael has no clue what they were meant to test—he can't really help it.

"Not that high. 162?"

"Isn't the _normal range_ something like... 90, to 110, or something?"

"No idea."

It is a lot to take in today. Kyle being _nice_ to him and trying to make idle conversation followed by _two hours_ of talking about his skills. This is a different kind of feeling to that _rawness_ from the weekly sessions when they try to figure out why he is such a mess. Now Michael is mentally exhausted, and trying to ignore the whisper of hope that is in the back of his thoughts.

He _is_ smart. And intelligent. And has no problem picking up new skills. The tests showed Michael there are endless possibilities for a person like him, if they aren't dealing with life the way he is—or not dealing. There are some decisions Michael needs to be making, and for the first time since high school they revolve around things that he wants. Not things that he needs in the short term to get through the next day. Things that involve a _future_; a _good_ one. None of it seems possible, so he can't let himself even begin to hope for it. He can't let himself _want_.

"I read somewhere that really smart people—like _smart_ smart people—have the least common sense," Kyle adds, and when Michael looks, he gets the impression Kyle is talking more to himself.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Possibly."

"Where do _you_ fall on that scale?"

"Me?" When Michael nods, Kyle runs his hand over his scruff tilting his head as though in thought. "Average. Had to work _really_ hard in med school. Not like one of those it all came naturally to."

"You know. I think _I_ read somewhere that high school bullies and mean girls are most likely to enter a caring or medical profession," Michael retorts, because he can't _help_ himself.

"Is this bullying thing you're holding on to because you're pissed he forgave me?" Kyle asks, with a knowing tone Michael really doesn't like.

"Nothing to do with me."

"If it's nothing to do with you, why'd you always bring it up?"

"I don't." He _does_; Michael knows that he does. That Alex would forgive someone who made his life hell for so long, Michael can't understand. At all. Does Alex just forgive people all the time no matter what wrongs they've done him? Like his _father_? If Alex can forgive his own father, then why does it feel like _he_ is the only person Alex can't forgive? For anything. For everything.

"Alex is a good person," Kyle says, which pisses Michael off. Does he think he doesn't know that? "The Air Force has changed him a little—a _lot_. But inside, he's still the same. Big heart, sassy bastard... really good friend. I think the only person Alex never really forgives, is himself."

"For what?"

"Everything? Anything?" Kyle licks his lips, his eyes on the traffic when a car screeches up ahead. "He talks about how _you're_ a good person, and how he hates when so few people give you a chance. He doesn't forgive himself for hurting you whenever he has, or however he has, which, I don't know. He doesn't tell me everything about you two."

Michael doesn't know what to make of that at all.

"I think the thing that confused me most about this thing with you two, is how he talks about you. Like you're this good person, whose life has been hell. Which is exactly how I'd describe _him_, too. But I never hear _you_ saying anything good about Alex. What's _that_ about?"

Michael would punch something if he had the energy for it. Probably himself. Does everyone think they have the right to put him under a spotlight suddenly? To ask questions no one else has ever bothered asking before? "Not like we hang out."

"Are you telling me that if you and me spent more time together, you'd have good things to say about Alex? Because," Kyle says, gesturing at the car, "now's a good time."

"Why's it so important to you?" Michael retorts.

"Why's it so important to me that the person I'm trying to be a _friend_ to isn't holding out a hope for someone who doesn't think he's worth it? Is that seriously an actual question?"

Michael lets his head knock back against the headrest. The silence draws out between them because he hasn't got a clue what to say. Though Michael also gets the impression that if he doesn't say anything, Kyle is going to think even worse of him. Why that should bother him, he doesn't know, but it does. "Alex _is_ a good person. He's kind. Thoughtful. Argumentative as _hell_. Passionate about the things that are important to him. A problem solver. Protective. And when he _loves_ you, it's like... the whole rest of the world just doesn't matter. I'm not this _nobody_ everyone in this town hates, or the one with no real connection to anything."

Michael would like to climb out of the car right now, for letting _any_ of that out of his mouth. Why is he saying _any_ of this to Kyle?

"Keep talking," is all Kyle says, soft and encouraging. Michael _hates_ it.

"Uh. He's... easy to talk to. We _do_ talk; despite what he thinks."

"Alex says you don't talk?"

It is an accusation that has been playing in Michael's thoughts since the time he said it at that drive-in. They did talk, all the time, about all kinds of things. He _hates_ the idea that Alex could dismiss all of that. Michael has shared things with him that he has never dared to with anyone else.

"Kinda, yeah."

"_Alex_ can suck at talking," Kyle says pursing his lips together. "Literally like getting blood out of a stone when he shuts down. Does he do that thing with you, where you can tell it's a hard thing for him to tell you because every word comes out perfect, like he's rehearsed it?"

"Uh, no," Michael says, though he himself has experienced Alex's rehearsed words in recent weeks. He knows Alex isn't great at talking about what he's feeling, that it's easier for him to shut down than say a word. But rehearsed words between them? It doesn't happen all that often.

Though Michael is then hit with a reminder of some recent rehearsed words from Alex and wants to punch something. That last time in his Airstream, when Alex was trying _so_ hard to talk to him, and Michael had run out, so lost in his own messes that he couldn't stay to listen to him. How differently would these past few weeks have turned out, if he had?

"Well. That's something."

"He's a really, _really_ sore loser," Michael adds then, hit out of nowhere for a memory of a game of cards that Alex had insisted he'd cheated at and then had sulked about for an hour after. Michael remembers having to use all of his charm to win him round again—and get at least a corner of his own damn bed in the Airstream.

Kyle laughs, loud and hard. "When we were maybe five, or six, Alex threw _Lego_ in my face because I made my Lego car faster than him. And when my dad would have us play ball, or race or something in the yard to keep us busy when we were bored, Alex always insisted we go again, every single damn time he lost. Which wasn't often. He tries to be a perfectionist in everything; even when it's supposed to be fun."

Michael likes the image of a tiny Alex sulking for not getting his own way. He wishes Alex's childhood had been a kind one. The image stays with him when Kyle drops him home, and as he prepares dinner for him and Isobel, then stays in the back of his thoughts as Isobel tells him about her day. Michael shares a little from his skills assessment, trying to be thankful instead of embarrassed when she says how proud she is of him.

Though it is _Alex_ arriving unannounced that really makes the thought of Alex as a kid more prominent in his thoughts. The thing is, he isn't all that surprised to see him. Michael feels like he could sense he was coming over. Maybe that is what has made him feel so calm since this afternoon?

"Everything okay?" Alex asks, which is at least mildly frustrating. Can't Michael just be smiling idiotically for no good reason for once?

"Everything's great. You coming in?" Michael adds stepping back away from the door to offer.

Alex hesitates, but then nods and passes by him, freezing for Isobel standing and watching them both.

"Alex."

"Isobel. How are you?" Alex says, softly, and lost, and out of his depth.

"Oh, you know..."

Have these two ever had a conversation, Michael muses as he ushers Alex further in to the house so he isn't standing there _gawping_ back at Isobel. "Coffee?"

"Sure?"

"I'm going for a bath," Isobel says, with a smile that Michael is sure is meant to intimidate Alex. Alex only raises an eyebrow back with a similar look, which Isobel then looks delighted for. Then Alex's face breaks out into a smile, and Michael leaves them to it, whatever strange Klingon mind merge is happening something he doesn't really have the capacity for right now.

"She didn't have to go," Alex says, which is Michael's first clue Isobel has gone upstairs.

"I know."

"How was today?" Alex asks immediately, coming to stand by Michael's side as he makes their coffee.

"You mean the skills thing?"

"Yes."

"Kyle didn't tell you?"

"I assume you didn't even tell Kyle anything," Alex retorts. So Alex knows nothing of their conversation on the drive home, which Michael finds interesting.

"You wanna try one of these?" Michael asks, stalling for a little time as he holds out a box of sticky iced _things_ towards him; Isobel picked them up on the way home.

"What are they?"

"I have no idea. Taste good though; I had two already."

"Uh. Sure?"

Michael plates them both one up, gesturing for Alex to take them through while he finishes the coffee. This is all so jarring, and easy, when it should be so much harder. Michael's heart races for being so pleased to see him, as his stomach settles for having him around; even if the rest of him aches for nothing being right between them ever. Which is all a confusing mess when everything is trying to compete most for his attention at the same time.

"So. How was it?" Alex asks when Michael joins him, breaking off small pieces of the sticky mess that Michael could honestly eat another three of.

"Good."

"Good? That's all?"

"It was fine," Michael says, waving his hand when Alex goes to talk again; he just needs to order his words. "I did some tests, they told me I'm not as dumb as I act—"

"Michael..."

Michael sighs, hating being in any kind of spotlight, taking to shredding his cake in pieces over his plate. "It was good. I hated doing it. I had all these tests—"

"You're _great_ at tests," Alex objects.

"It wasn't that, so much."

"It was because it was all about _you_?" Alex guesses, which isn't fair at all. Even if it is right.

"Uh. Yeah."

"You really are one of the smartest people I know," Alex says with a mixture of softness and pride in his voice, which isn't fair either. Michael wants to make a glib comment about Alex not knowing all that many people if that's what he thinks, but the words fall flat before they are even formed.

"Remember that scholarship I got offered back in high school?" Michael asks. Alex nods with a pinched smile.

"How could I not remember? I was hoping it was your way out of this place. Not this space specifically, but... you know what I mean."

"I remember wishing I could go anyway. That maybe you'd get one too, and come with."

"Really?" Why does Alex have to sound so surprised?

"Of course." And just like that, an entire other universe of possibilities taunt Michael; for the two of them escaping hellish childhoods and home situations to learn to be the best of themselves, away from everything. _Together_. It _hurts_ that they never had their chance, and it wasn't even their fault. What Michael wouldn't give to go back.

"Well. It's not—I can still use it. Sort of. I mean, I can... the advisor today made some calls, and I can take some classes with it if I want, maybe study online. Something, anyway; I need to figure some things out."

"_Seriously_?" Alex's eyes are wide, his face lighting up with a smile, and all Michael can think about is how beautiful he looks—just for being happy for _him_.

"Yeah, Alex. If I want to."

"Do you want to?"

"Think I'm wasting my life if I don't?" he blurts out before he can stop himself. Alex's face falls and his shoulders become rigid. Michael could kick himself. Without letting himself overthink it Michael scoots closer to him on the couch, hesitating before he takes Alex's hand. Considering everything they have shared with one another, he shouldn't be so giddy for it, or so excited that Alex doesn't pull away. "Think I need to learn a little about how to control my _mouth _before I try figuring out some kinda career path, though, right?"

Alex stares at him, long and hard, a growing glint in his eye as he starts smiling at him. "I think you'll remember I never had _any_ objection to what you did with your mouth."

Michael _bursts_ with laughter, something deep and cavernous welling up in him and blurting from his mouth, only made worse when he catches Alex's eye and all he does is smirk and raise an eyebrow at him. It isn't even that funny, but Michael is helpless for it, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he catches his breath. It takes him several attempts to calm only to start laughing again, laughter spluttering for him before he gets it under control. When he is done, Alex only calmly passes him his coffee and the shredded sugar mess now covering his plate.

"I think you deserve a _better_ life, Michael. It isn't about wasting anything. I just wish that... I _hope_, when all this is over, you have something you want; just for you. Because _you_ really want it."

"You know, Alex. That was all I ever really wanted for you as well?"

Alex smiles, a real one, the kind that puts flutters in Michael's heart. Alex even takes his hand again since Michael had let go while laughing so much. "Then, I hope we both find what we want."

"I can't believe you reenlisted," Michael says, sorrowful as he looks back at him.

"It isn't forever. I have access to all kinds of resources while I am. I can help protect _you_."

"I'm not your responsibility," Michael tries to argue, which earns him a _look_. They haven't spoken since Alex last showed up at Izzy's, yet Michael feels closer to him than ever. No matter how long they spend apart they always _fit_ back so easily. Maybe that means something far bigger than Michael has ever dared hope.

"That is _not_ how I see this," Alex replies, running his thumb over Michael's knuckles, looking like he's studying them. It is the first time Michael has let him hold _this_ hand in about ten years, for how it hurt, and all the memories it brought back.

"And how do you see this?" Michael asks as he watches him, breath catching in his throat when Alex looks up.

"That we're a _mess_?"

Michael can't help echoing Alex's smile. "That's not _news_."

"But that we're a mess we're actually going to try to fix?" Alex amends.

"Got some work ahead of us if we do," Michael says, like this is a normal conversation and his heart is not now racing with possibility and hope.

"It'll be worth it. I think we _both_ need to work on some things. For ourselves, first, but definitely for us too."

"That what we're doing here, Alex?" Michael asks, daring to squeeze his hand.

Alex nods, smiling though not quite meeting his eye. "First thing we're doing, is... let's just be here a little for each other, for now. We'll work on all the rest."

"That mean you're gonna start messaging me again?" Michael asks, and this time doesn't keep the hope from his voice. He's _missed_ him, desperately. A little daily contact might make him feel more like he is whole.

"I will start messaging you again," Alex agrees, "but you didn't exactly reach out."

"You wanted me to message first?"

"You went on a bender, woke up drunk in another state. You lost your mom, and your brother. You had your hand healed. Your brother-in-law turned out to be someone from your own planet who _violated_ your sister. And that's just in the last few weeks. What am I supposed to say to that, if I message first? Hey, how are you?" Alex asks, his voice high and incredulous; even as he smiles.

Well. When he puts it like that... "Okay. So. I know how _my_ day went; tell me about yours?" Michael asks, wondering if this is anywhere near what Alex had in mind when he'd said he wanted them to try to be friends.

Alex settles back on the couch beside him, letting go of Michael's hand so they can both attempt to eat the sugary pastry things still on their plates. And when Alex leaves, over an hour later, they hug by the door for even longer than the last time, Michael feeling relieved for it, instead of broken.

When Isobel conveniently comes back downstairs as Alex's car pulls away, Michael avoids her gaze. He can feel her amusement, and her concern, along with her own sense of hope; just as she must be feeling _his_.

"Everything okay?" she asks anyway, picking up one of the remaining sugary things from its box, licking her fingers clean as she watches him.

"I think so. I think it might be."

Isobel holds her arms out for a hug. Michael steps into them without a single objection.

* * *

Michael _needs_ a drink. He _needs_ one. This is the first time since he started staying at Isobel's that the urge has made him want to climb the walls. Or break them down. Or set fire to everything around him. He _hates_ feeling. All Michael wants is to be numb.

It was bad enough this morning when Liz came to the house, coming to see him for the first time since Max left them. To see her raging fury still, quietly bubbling beneath the surface; it was like having the wound of losing him slashed open again. Michael worries for her, knowing that look of determination in her eyes can mean nothing good. He wants to be a better friend to her, to build on the easiness that had grown between them when they worked together in her lab trying to help Isobel. But she isn't ready yet; Michael could tell without even needing to ask. She insisted on hugging him goodbye, and Michael had held on as long as she would let him. In the past couple of weeks, Michael has learned to get far better at hugs.

The morning then took a sharp veer when _Arturo_ of all people arrived, bright and sunny as always, announcing he was taking Michael to his next _session_, which Michael is reluctant to call _counseling_, even if it's obvious that is exactly what it is. To hear Arturo chattering away about Liz, and the Crashdown, the love and pride in his voice; Michael thinks it only made his _session_ feel worse.

Now he is back at Isobel's, feeling so tightly coiled that even the slightest noise around him is like someone screaming in his ear. That is all Michael feels like doing; screaming out all his frustration and anger. This is why he _hates_ talking about himself. It never comes to any good.

Today, the theme of Michael's session was abandonment. He relived the group home, watching Max and Isobel being taken by the Evans, the endless stream of foster homes that didn't want him, the way Michael had always felt on the outside of Isobel and Max's lives despite them being the closest thing to siblings it is possible to be. He relived harsh looks and words, jokes at his expense, people dismissing him without a thought just because of everything he isn't, or doesn't have. Michael rehashed Alex walking away from him over and over, all the times he felt like Alex was ashamed of him. Then all the times Max looked at him in disappointment, and the complicated mess that was first the shattering, and then the fixing of his hand. And then after all of that, even though he hadn't got around to mentioning it in his _session_, the thought stuck in Michael's head was losing his _mom_.

Arturo drove him home from the session unaware that his happy chattering as a proud father and business owner were striking at every nerve. And now Michael is alone in the house because Isobel is away until tomorrow night for work. Michael doesn't think he can stand being alone. He tries to pace, back and forth then up and down the stairs, before doing the same in the yard in the dark. The _stars_, he thinks as he looks up a the sky trying not to let out the tears he knows will inevitably fall. They used to be the only hope he had, the only promise of a home. And now what does he have? Nothing. No one to turn to. Nothing has _changed_ for Michael since he started looking up for a hope of rescue all those years ago.

A sob erupts from his throat; Michael knows he must outpace it before he loses all control. With his heart racing and the pounding sound of his blood pumping in his ears, Michael does what he has promised everyone he wouldn't; leave the house on his own.

At first, the freedom is exhilarating; walking beside an unlit road on the way to wherever he wants. He could go to a bar, or a liquor store, or anywhere he wants to, really. Even a pharmacy; how quickly would acetone knock him out now for not having drunk any for so long? Michael wants to find out, desperately seeking that numbness, to _forget_ how alone he is in the world. But then he pictures the disappointment on Isobel's face, and then Alex's, and the sound of a cell door closing behind him with only a look of _I give up_ from Sheriff Valenti sending Michael spinning on his heel, trudging back to Isobel's and knowing relief for being behind closed doors. What is _happening_ to him?

All Michael knows is that he doesn't want to be alone right now. Isobel is busy, Liz didn't look anywhere near ready for someone else's problems, Alex and him are learning to support one another, though not with this overwhelming ache currently in Michael's heart. So who does that leave him with? Who can he turn to? There is literally nobody else. Michael curses at Max again for leaving him, glad that this wall of emotion is dulling his powers. Otherwise he'd have smashed glass and furniture to explain to Izzy when she returned home.

This is the _worst_. He can already picture the smug smile, the taunting that he'll probably be on the receiving end for the rest of his life if he makes this call. But feeling as he does, Michael doesn't think it will turn out very well if he doesn't reach for someone. Even if that someone is _Kyle_.

"Hi."

Kyle is surprised to hear from him when he answers on the second ring; it is so clear in his voice.

"Uh. Hi," Michael says, shoving a hand into his back pocket as he paces, having no idea how he can get these words out.

"Everything okay?"

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Michael hears a muffled sound that he thinks must be Kyle covering the phone so he can't hear him talking; has he called him at work?

"What is it? Are you okay?" Kyle asks then, concern in his voice that Michael knows he should rally against but instead sags into. Maybe he just needs to hear someone else's voice.

"Honestly? It's been a really long day," Michael says, when what he thought about saying was some kind of trash talk half-insulting Kyle into bringing him over takeout. At least that would be better than _this_.

"You had your session today?"

The entire world knows Michael's schedule better than him. He paces faster, like that might outpace the residual embarrassment he still feels. Even if that is fading fast; how can he care about being embarrassed when he feels like this? "Yeah."

"Rough?"

"Yeah."

"Did you eat anything?"

Okay, so, maybe the way to get Kyle to bring him takeout is just to _ask_. "No. No; not yet."

"Okay. Well, I feel like Chinese. See you in... you gonna be okay for about an hour?"

_No_, Michael wants to say, but if he breaks time down into minutes, maybe he can. "Yeah. Yes; I'm good."

"Okay. Hang tight," Kyle says, hanging up the moment Michael says, _okay_. Michael looks around Isobel's living room pleading with the hour to pass, and once again begins to pace.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

"You really _do_ eat when you're on edge, don't you?" Kyle says with what Michael thinks is a tone of being impressed. The pounding in his heart from earlier has soothed a little for stuffing his face full, though he does feel like his chest is bruised from it racing so fast.

"I guess?"

"You don't know you stress eat? Or nervous eat? Or whatever kind of eating this is," Kyle says, gesturing with his chopsticks to the spread of cartons and packets over the coffee table. At least Michael has a full 24 hours before Isobel gets back to yell at him about making a mess.

"Honestly? No. I didn't." Michael is finding out all kinds of things about himself of lately, none of which so far he likes.

Kyle pauses with a scoop of rice balanced above his carton near his mouth, frowning over the top of it. "How'd you eat in that Airstream?"

Michael carefully swallows the mouthful of noodles he has, his appetite finally dying. Sanders asked him that question once, then no one again until _Alex_. It isn't anyone else's responsibility to make sure he is eating, but now it hurts how few people have realized his living situation might not be ideal for that.

"It's not as beat up as it looks. I have a stove. Working shower. Even a little portable washing machine; I do okay."

"I guess people must go on the road with them all the time," Kyle muses.

"Live in them, too."

"But do you like living in an Airstream?" Kyle asks. "It's cool if you do. The idea of all that freedom sounds kind of nice—if it's what you want."

"I'll take a roof over my head over none."

"That's no answer."

Michael knows it isn't. But a house with a yard, or an apartment, or even a house share in some other place away from the judgmental eyes of Roswell are things far beyond his reach. Even though he could easily afford at least a cheap apartment or sharing with someone on what he used to earn. Most months. Not always. That is the beauty of an Airstream; if it's a poor month for work, at least he has somewhere to sleep and can still eat. He says as much to Kyle, who doesn't look at him with pity, or judgment, only quietly observes. It's frustrating, really, how _pleasant_ he is being about all this.

"Must be nice living with Isobel right now, though, right?" Kyle says, patting his stomach, then groaning as he stands. Is he leaving already? Michael thinks to himself in alarm even though he tries to hide it, relieved when Kyle is just clearing up.

"Uh. Yeah? I guess?"

"Nice to be able to be here _for_ her," Kyle adds, which Michael can get behind. That he is here when Isobel has the occasional nightmare, or just needs someone to sound off to; Michael is glad he can help with that.

"Absolutely."

"So. I don't know what you need from me here, Michael," Kyle says when they have tidied their cartons away and are back on the couch. Instantly Michael freezes up, which of course Kyle notices, holding his hand up in defense. "I just mean, I don't know if you need to talk about today, or you just want some company watching whatever trash we can find on TV. Tell me what you need."

That Kyle is willing to be here, no questions asked, is humbling. Michael tries to find some words to mock him with, but can't. "I really don't know."

"No?"

"I just... I really didn't think I could be on my own here."

Kyle's posture shifts; Michael can see him going into doctor mode. "Michael—"

"I just meant, I didn't think I could trust myself. No; that's not it either, that sounds worse. What I mean is..." Michael doesn't know what he means. He fights to find words, and there are none.

"It was a hard session?"

Michael scoffs at that. "If I'd stripped myself naked, and run through the street on Fox News, I think I'd probably feel a whole lot less exposed."

Kyle's face, for trying to contain his smile, goes through a complicated series of ripples before settling on one of mild concern. "So, that made you feel like... hitting something?"

"It made me feel like drinking. And driving. Or walking. Or just... _going_ somewhere. Out of my own head, preferably."

"Like, numb?"

"_Yeah_," Michael says, getting his hand through his hair and even tugging a little. "Yeah. Numb would be real nice right about now."

"Is that why you drank so much before?" Kyle asks. It is an innocent question that still strikes a nerve. Though it doesn't make Michael want to lash out, which in itself is unnerving. "Exactly. Between that, and my hand, and trying to forget everything—"

"I forgot Max fixed your hand," Kyle says, and to Michael's surprise, gestures to see it. To Michael's further surprise, he lets him. Michael is horrified by how gentle his touch is as he brushes over his knuckles in a calm, steady way he imagines Kyle must do with his patients. "This alone must be pretty weird?"

"What?"

"To have the reminder of Max healing this, but him being gone?"

Michael nods, pulling his hand back when Kyle has finished prodding and poking. "I guess?"

"I don't even know how you hurt your hand in the first place," Kyle adds, looking _guilty_. "But that scarring looks old. I'm guessing it's been there a while."

Alex hasn't told him? Michael doesn't have a clue what to make of that. So he tells him, hoping Alex won't mind Kyle knowing at least the briefest of details. When he has finished, Michael knows even more surprise for the furious look on Kyle's face.

"You know. I will never forgive my dad for his part in what he did at Caulfield," Kyle begins to say through careful, measured breaths. "But Jesse Manes? That's a whole other level of asshole I don't even know how to get my head around."

Michael takes in his words and knows his own quiet fury. "I guess he was... was he always like that? With Alex?"

"As long as I can remember, yeah. Though he's definitely got worse in recent years in other ways. It's his _words_ that always hit Alex hardest. I don't get it. I mean I _do_; I get why he singled Alex out. He's not like his brothers; never been one to follow Dad's orders without questioning them. Doesn't mean it's right. Doesn't mean I haven't thought about sneaking into his hospital room and making things a whole lot easier for all of us."

"Tell me where he is and I'll do it myself."

"You won't," Kyle replies, "you're in enough trouble as it is. Take it easy; I have a feeling Jesse Manes is gonna get his in ways he is least expecting."

Michael doesn't know what that means, but hopes so, with all that he is. And because he doesn't know what else to say, Michael turns on the TV for some background noise.

"Alex says you're texting?"

Michael grits his teeth, but forces himself to nod. "Yeah. A little." In fact it isn't a little. It's daily, multiple times, meaningless things and sweet words and everything in between. It means everything to Michael; he hopes it means at least half as much to Alex.

"It's good. Certainly taken some of the tension from his brow."

"Alex is tense?"

"Alex is missing _you_," Kyle says, with less of that _I don't know why_ look about him that he'd had a couple of weeks earlier. Which is _nice_. Probably.

"I miss him too."

"Told him that?"

"Actually, yes," Michael says, pretty proud of them both for some of the words they are using. Even if they aren't yet saying those words out loud.

"Good."

"You... seen him recently?"

Kyle's face clouds over telling Michael things that puts knots in his stomach.

"You were with him tonight when I called."

Kyle nods, looking at him without saying anything.

"At the bunker? The Project Shepherd one?"

"Yeah. He's not sleeping all that much, so is putting all these extra hours into trying to work through everything in there. It's a lot."

"What's he working through?" Michael asks, feeling sick along with curious.

"He's working on trying to find a way to shut the whole thing down, quietly, without notice. Without anyone noticing."

"But... Caulfield is gone."

"You really think Caulfied is the only place Jesse Manes was involved in?" Kyle asks. "It looks like the only place people were kept imprisoned, but that doesn't mean he wasn't developing things elsewhere. Alex's first priority was erasing all records of you, and making sure Isobel and Max weren't on any of the databases. None of you are now. He's just trying to figure everything else out. It's going to take a while."

Michael absorbs all of this information, knowing he will replay it and internalize all kinds of questions about it when he is alone. "Does he know you're here?"

"No. He thought I'd been called to work. I figured, if you were calling me, instead of him, you didn't want to talk about whatever this is with him. Am I right?"

Michael wants to hate that he is, but doesn't. "Yes. Sort of. I just... It's been a _lot_ today."

"You talked about Alex?"

"I feel like I talked about _everything_," Michael replies, his food sitting too heavy for remembering it all.

"I'm guessing, you don't wanna rehash it?"

"Honestly? I wouldn't know where to start."

"But if you _did_ know, where would you?" Kyle counters; he is far too good at this talking thing, Michael realizes. Maybe asking him here was a mistake. Michael pushes his hair back from his face, stalling for more time.

"We talked a bit about group homes, and me not getting adopted when Isobel and Max were. Things like that."

Kyle nods in thought. "I can't even imagine, any of that."

Michael has no words for him. "It's in the past."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt now. Especially if you're being made to talk about it."

"Supposed to be for my own good, or something; I don't even know." Though Michael's heart is already fluttering again for reliving having to reveal himself.

"I hate talking about myself," Kyle says with a rueful smile. "I get it."

Do you? Michael wants to ask. He knows Kyle lost his dad fairly young, so maybe he does. Maybe he gets part of what is going on with him even if he hasn't said anything about it.

"And you just lost Max, and a mom you didn't even know you had here. Michael. I think, whatever you're feeling after today? I think I'd be wanting to drink the entire world as well. You should be pretty proud of yourself that you haven't."

There it is again. That feeling that a part of him is unraveling, and there isn't a single thing he can do to gather himself together again. "Yeah."

Kyle nods, turning his head towards the TV; Michael knows he isn't watching. He pleads with himself for courage, to try to get some of what he is thinking out.

"I almost didn't, though. I almost walked out of here and to the first place I came across with alcohol, or something. I almost did."

"But you didn't. And that's what counts," Kyle says, still not looking at him.

"Yeah."

"Believe it, don't believe it. The fact is, you're here now. Full to bursting on Chinese food, and I'm guessing with no plans to go anywhere now?"

"Go? I can't even move."

"See? It's perfect," Kyle tells him with a flicker of a smile.

Michael settles back on the couch, glad that his jeans are loose. It is strangely comfortable with Kyle by his side even if his heart is still racing after all the events of today. But because he isn't sure what else to say to him, all Michael does is look at the TV screen. He has no idea what is in it, but it is something to focus on.

"You know. When my Dad died, it was... it was hard. And I knew it was coming. And I'd known him all my life."

Michael watches Kyle out the corner of his eye as he speaks, adding nothing.

"And then I learned that the father I'd grieved for, all those years, I didn't know at all. What with Rosa, and Caulfield, and everything. It's like my whole world perception shifted; least about him."

"Yeah. I can... yeah, that must be a lot."

"It is. Though I can't imagine how you, finding your mom, finding her like _that_, and then losing her again, in the space of a few minutes. And knowing Jesse Manes' involvement; I don't think I could get my head around it even now."

"I keep picturing her there. In that cell. For _decades_," Michael says, closing his eyes even though that won't help, will only make the images in his head clearer. "All that time I was in a group home, or in foster care as a kid, and she was _there_. And all that time I was right here, and maybe I could've _done_ something."

"What could you have done?" Kyle asks. "Jesse Manes is a vile, vindictive, manipulative man, using his power to get all kinds of people to do his bidding. What could _you_ have done?"

"The three of us broke into Caulfield," Michael points out, hating the confirmation that he is useless, that he couldn't even do anything to save his own mom. They came to this world, probably for a fresh start, or refuge. She spent her entire life in a cell or being tested on. How disappointed she would be to know of the life he's been living. Michael is ashamed for it, for not doing more—for her.

"Yeah. And where did that get any of us?"

Michael knows it, knows that her death is now on his hands. As much as he wants to blame everyone else for it, his presence was part of what set that alarm off.

Kyle is apparently a mind reader, for reaching to nudge him on the arm. "You know that wasn't because of us, right?"

"We were there."

"We didn't set a bomb to detonate to kill innocent people inside. That wasn't on us. That was on Jesse, and his damn Project Shepherd. You aren't to blame. Not you, or me, and especially not Alex."

"I don't blame Alex," Michael says letting his eyes fall closed with fresh guilt. "I did. I blamed him, just for being part of the Manes family. I called Alex a _Manes man_; when I knew, I had to know, didn't I? How bad things were for Alex as a kid?" Michael is now taunting himself with his own cruelty for not knowing enough. But he didn't; Michael had never really connected what happened to his hand with what happened to Alex maybe every day. He loathes himself for it, loathes that he has ever let a word slip from his mouth unthinkingly that must have wounded Alex, just for mentioning him.

"A lot of people knew. A lot of adults knew it was happening _when_ it was happening. No one did anything. We were kids."

Michael wants to wrap Alex up in his arms to protect the boy who knew cruelty at his own father's hands. Though how is _he_ any better? He has only ever wanted to protect him and love him, but only ever ended up hurting Alex. What kind of a monster does that make _him_?

"Michael," Kyle says, his tone shifting again to something more serious. "I don't know what you're thinking, or... what went on for you in that session today, but I don't think you can take on the blame for the entire world. For _everything_. You were a kid, and from the sounds of things, the whole system failed you. And yet you're still here, still fighting; not exactly in the most ideal way, it's true. But you're living, and breathing, and doing something with your life, in spite all of that."

"I'm drinking my life away, working a job I like but everyone else thinks is some dead-end no brainer."

"I'd say fixing every kind of vehicle you can get your hands on is the opposite of a no-brainer, Michael." Kyle counters. "I just think... Michael. You were the smartest kid in all my classes. I guess people just assumed you'd do more, you know? Something academic. I'm guessing you gave up that scholarship for good reasons, which makes you either noble, or a self-sacrificing idiot. I don't know the details. But I also don't think Alex Manes of all people would let himself fall for someone who isn't worthy of him. You might not be there now, wherever you're supposed to be. But I trust Alex's instincts. So if he tells me you're good people, I believe him."

"Easy as that?"

"You sure gave me a hard enough time for everything I did to Alex back when we were in school, which I deserved," Kyle says, smiling even though he isn't looking at him. Which is a relief; Michael's eyes are filling up, and he doesn't have the strength to move himself from the couch to get some privacy. "You're gonna be okay," Kyle adds, and then to Michael's surprise and silence gratitude, clasps his hand around his shoulder, still staring at the TV screen.

For the warmth of someone's hand, the comfort of even this smallest of touches, Michael begins to know a little peace from all the turmoil of his day. And for the first time in longer than Michael can remember, he gives in, allowing himself to really cry.

* * *

The next few weeks for Michael pass by in a blur. He attends his weekly _sessions_ where he wrenches his soul out then spends the rest of the day licking his wounds as he recovers from it. He goes to the _meetings_ for alcohol dependency, and only twice thinks he wants to see the reaction of everyone in the group if he says he has a preference for acetone.

He takes all the online courses he is asked to do in preparation for _college_, which Michael still can't believe is really happening. He's picked a course—something broad covering all aspects of engineering—and he'll study remotely for it, has already started working his way through some of the textbooks that will form part of his required reading. He has even filled in every form to make sure he really can use that _scholarship_ to pay for it all. Michael is learning the art of patience, and ways to _not_ reach for something to numb him every time something bad happens; which surprisingly, isn't often anyway now that he's putting his life together. And Michael is still putting in his fifteen hours at Sanders, relishing in the freedom it feels like. His relationship with Sanders is at an all-time high as well. Michael is sure the man views him as a nephew, or grandson, or something.

Michael is even working on having _friends_. Michael's phone has never been so busy, with constant easy conversations with Liz, Kyle, Cam, and of course Alex, whose messages still mean the most to him and Michael spends hours rereading, even if he tells himself he isn't. All of them come to visit, which Isobel loves for giving her an excuse to host when they all descend at the same time. Even Sheriff Valenti has come by a couple of times to check on him, giving Michael a pride-filled smile that says he is doing well. Michael _hopes_ he is. And for reasons beyond not wanting to let anyone else down. He doesn't want to let _himself_ down. Now there is a hope of a future ahead of him, Michael _wants_ better things for himself. Not everything, and not because he thinks he now deserves everything. But because he knows there is _something_ ahead of him, Michael goes to bed sleeping easily, and wakes without feeling despair. These feelings are new to Michael. He _likes_ them. He has no intention of giving them up any time soon.

"I am really, _really_ proud of you, Michael," Isobel says to him over dinner one evening about four months after he first moved in to hers. They are out on her porch looking over the yard, talking about when his college courses officially begin, while Isobel tells him about a client whose ideas for an upcoming event are making her want to tear her hair out. Isobel looks good, _peaceful_ and at ease with herself. Michael is far prouder of _her_ than he thinks he can say.

"Well. Maybe I'm proud of both of us," he says, raising his glass of whatever this juice is in toast to clink against Isobel's wine glass. That it doesn't bother him, and that he doesn't have the urge to even try any wine himself tells Michael he really _doesn't_ have a drink problem. There are people in his life who would think otherwise, namely his _counselor_ and Kyle whenever he has his doctor hat on, but Michael thinks he can convince them both someday as well.

"But look at all you've _done_; aside from completely transform my yard into this perfect little oasis," Isobel says gesturing over the yard that has been Michael's sanctuary for some of these past four months. Why it took him weeks to realize his unofficial house arrest included the yard, and that his idea of helping Isobel change the house to make it hers instead of hers and Noah's extended out there as well, he doesn't know.

"Took a lot of kicking to get me here," Michael says, wondering how much worse things could have been for him had people _not_ stepped in to help. He owes them all so much, has even fought through the mortification of apologies for most people. All the ones who matter, anyway. Random people in bars and on the streets around Roswell who he's picked fights with, well, their opinions don't really matter. What matters is Michael knows there are people that care about him, and aren't afraid to show it. And that he cares about them back.

"Michael," Isobel says in soft reproach, pouting at him over her glass. "Maybe you needed a little nudge. But all this? Everything you've done? This is all on _you_. _You're_ the one turning your life around."

"With a lot of help."

"Are you telling me you think anyone gets anywhere in this life without help?"

"No. I guess not."

"You just didn't know how to ask for it," Isobel adds, reaching across the table to clasp his hand. "And now you _do_ know, I hope you _keep_ asking."

Michael squeezes her hand back, once more raising his glass. "Oh, don't you worry. I intend to. You wait until I'm getting you to proofread all my assignments and waking you up to quiz me when I have tests."

"If we can use flashcards and color coding and really cute highlighter pens, I am _there_."

"You got it," Michael says, laughing. He suspects she already has exactly those things stashed away in anticipation.

"Max would be so proud of you," Isobel says then with a wistful smile, turning her face up to the darkening sky beginning to be dotted with stars.

Michael follows her gaze, toying with the stem of his glass for something to keep his hands busy. Max is still a subject that can silence any conversation, and is the hardest one to recover from. Though Michael also knows he _can_ recover from it, by gently pushing through.

"Maybe. He'd also laugh his ass off about me drinking _juice_ on a Friday night. And having an actual _scheduler_ thing on my phone."

"A _scheduler thing_ that not only is on your phone, but is synced to update a calendar on your shiny new study laptop as well," Isobel adds. Michael knows she covets that damn laptop. He's seen her _stroking_ it when he's left the room for anything.

"Don't you worry. Got your birthday in there already, as well as up in here," he says, jabbing a finger at his temple.

"I'm not worried. I'm _interested_ to hear more about the person who helped you pick the laptop out."

Alex. Alex who has been incredible about all of this, taking on this strange new persona the moment Michael said he was studying online and needed a little guidance on what he might need. It wasn't militant, or anything that made Michael think of the soldier Alex still technically is. But it did show an Alex in his element, surrounded by technology and an online world. It was Alex who helped him choose the laptop, driving him out to the store with Michael giddy like it was a day trip somewhere exotic, and he was about six because he hadn't been further than the Roswell town center in so long. Alex glared down sales assistants trying to sell Michael all kinds of unnecessary products, and shove worthless things on him, getting Michael an incredible package giving him everything he needs to make his studying easy.

Alex helped him choose antivirus and ad-blockers, operating systems, and even that scheduler app. He's messaged constantly with suggestion for other things he can use as part of his _study kit_, as Alex has started referring to it all. They even Skype now as well as message, Michael knowing relief every time Alex's smile fills his laptop screen. He gets to hear about Alex's days, and has things to share with him from his days as well—like a _real_ person; one who is a part of this world instead of looking in on it. And through every stage of it, Michael watched him thinking that Alex is just incredible. He is in awe that after everything, Alex still wants to spend time with him.

"What are you _interested_ in?" Michael says belatedly in response to Isobel, since even just the hint of Alex sets his thoughts spiraling these days—in good ways.

"Well. Let's see," Isobel says, in that tone that warns Michael to brace for teasing; he doesn't even mind it. What has happened to him? "_Alex_. Who takes you out for lunches, who I _know_ visits you at the scrapyard sometimes, and who I have on good authority you shared fries and a milkshake with at the Crashdown. Like a _date_."

"Okay. Firstly? It wasn't a _date_," Michael objects, "I was repairing something for Arturo. Alex came in for lunch. We had lunch there, and Arturo _gave_ us milkshakes and fries."

"Sounds like a date to me."

"That have anything to do with _Liz_ telling you we were there?" Michael retorts, for the singsong tease of her voice when she'd seen them still ringing in his ears, days later. Alex had only _smiled_ at her, completely unfazed by her reaction. He'd made it clear he was _with_ Michael the entire afternoon; in fact, he has made the effort to let Michael see how comfortable he is in his company whenever other people are around. This kind of thing is _world_ shifting for Michael, who now finds himself replaying these occasions and _grinning_ for them. Seriously, who is he becoming in all this?

"That, and the photographic evidence," Isobel says, turning her phone to show him a picture of him and Alex grinning at each other unaware of being watched. Okay, so maybe it looks a _little_ like a date for how happy they look. That doesn't mean anything.

"He does take a good picture," Michael says, grabbing Isobel's phone before she can take it back.

"I'll tell him you think that," Isobel replies when she finally gets a grip on her phone. Michael rolls his eyes; Isobel and Alex have only really been speaking for a couple of months. How they have developed this sassy, snarky friendship that continues whether anyone else is with them or not, he doesn't know. But he _likes_ it, a lot.

"He probably already knows I think that."

"I do not want to know the details of _that_," Isobel says immediately grimacing, with Michael wondering where the hell her mind has gone. "But I _do_ want details of your date tomorrow night."

"Once again; not a date," Michael replies, even if he has been through every shirt he owns to find one he hopes Alex will like best on him, and he is equal parts scared and excited about a whole evening with Alex alone that he is twitchy just for thinking about it.

"He's picking you up, and cooking you _dinner_ at his. How is that not a date?"

"We're friends," Michael protests, even if those words same lame to his ears. They are far more than that; they're just _working_ on things.

"Is this whole abstinence thing purely about alcohol? Or does it include sex?"

"_Iz_."

"It's not like Kyle can come over with his strange little breathalyzer kit to check if you've _had_ sex or not," Isobel muses, still grinning at him in tease.

"We're just having dinner. Maybe watching a movie. That's _it_." It can't be anything more than that. They have to do whatever it is they're doing slowly. Michael refuses to mess _them_ up again, and knows Alex feels the same. They've _talked_ about it, which is a whole other fresh revelation that Michael will now not be without.

"We'll see. Do I have to give you a curfew?"

Michael clicks his tongue in an effort not to be goaded, tilting his head to once again look at the sky. "Ever work out which one is ours?"

Michael watches out the corner of his eye as Isobel looks skyward as well. "Our planet?"

"Yeah."

"I think that was more your thing than mine. I was lucky enough to _fit_ here. Mostly."

Is that what all this is, Michael asks himself, luck? Is that the only thing determining why his life turned out like it did, and why everyone else is the way they are? On the off chance it _is_ all about luck, Michael begs for a little to come his way for tomorrow night, in the hope of doing right by Alex.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

"The last time you were in my office, you were a _mess_."

Michael can't argue with Sheriff Valenti. He won't even squirm in embarrassment; he knows exactly what he was like. And what he is working hard to never be again. Michael is _thriving_ for not lurching between one disaster and the next, learning to assess whatever problem is in front of him in a calm, measured manner that is so far from his old self that he thinks even Max would be surprised. He hopes he would, anyway.

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah; I was."

"I was about ready to throw everything I had at you," Sheriff Valenti adds, giving Michael a shrewd eyebrow raise that he has come to recognize in Kyle. If someone had told him a few months back that he would count Kyle Valenti as a friend, one he spends so much time with he can see his expressions in his _mother_, Michael would have asked what they were drinking and had double.

"I would have deserved it." He can't lie, or pretend any other way. These months of introspection and letting himself learn who he really is has been a hard lesson, but one that he is now grateful to have learned.

Sheriff Valenti smiles at him, dropping her head as she does, absently straightening up a file on her desk. "So. Michael? How are you?"

This isn't a question he was expecting, words that make him far more uncomfortable than having to acknowledge his past behavior. "I'm good."

From the inched up eyebrow in response, Michael knows she expects more.

"I'm doing good. I'm taking my classes, going to my things. Not drinking."

"How's the not drinking?"

Michael chooses to ignore the surprise in her voice; he knows he was _that bad_, but it is a little hard to acknowledge it. Right now Michael doesn't miss any of it at all; the drink, the acetone, the constant numbness he's always tried seeking. "It's fine."

"_Fine_?"

"I mean, I don't need it. I'm... doing okay with it. Without it."

"Kyle tells me you haven't registered any alcohol in your blood at _all_ since we started this thing."

"My involuntary house arrest?" Michael asks, because he is still _him_; he has to let the snark out sometimes.

"Yeah. How's _that_ going?" Sheriff Valenti says with a smile that, the old Michael would have been furious at. Now, he only laughs, shrugging his shoulders.

"Honestly? I think Isobel's just glad she comes home to dinner cooked most nights."

"And here was me thinking you didn't even know how to cook."

"You'd be surprised."

"I am surprised," she says, then tilts her head, "and also, not surprised at all. You aren't nearly as hopeless as everyone wrote you off as."

"Oh. _Thank _you."

Sheriff Valenti takes her turn to laugh. "I don't know what we're going to do around here without you entertaining us, Michael. I never knew what adventures you might be getting yourself into next."

"I didn't realize you were paying so much attention to me," Michael retorts. He'd been under the impression that most of Roswell didn't even know he existed, and those who did, wished he didn't.

"Oh. I've had my eye on your for a good few years, now."

"Guess you might do, what with Max."

"No. Not because of Max," she tells him. "I remember seeing you when you were all in high school. All that promise you had. How hard you worked for what you had; which, I know, wasn't much. I knew your life... wasn't easy back then. Never really forgave myself for not doing more."

The world shifts a little for Michael, leaving him unsettled, splaying his hands over his thighs for needing to distract himself a touch.

"Max and I had a deal, once he started working here. That we'd... maybe turn a blind eye to certain... _incidents_ you got yourself into. I can't help wonder if we looked away for too long."

Okay, now Michael is uncomfortable, though it is for the kind, compassionate look she is giving him, that says how much she blames _herself_ for how things have turned out for him. He can't have that, not at all.

"All of that was on me. I should've been responsible for me."

"Doesn't mean you should've felt so alone you couldn't turn to anyone."

He never thought he deserved it. Until these past couple of months, Michael didn't think he had the right to _ask_. So this, this isn't something he knows how to answer.

"I think you should be proud of yourself, Michael."

"For what?"

"Don't give me that," she says, laughing, though it's kind, affectionate almost. "I know we had to give you a little nudge, but you worked _hard_ these past couple of months. Look at you now. Working, studying, about to embark on a college course. Taking care of Isobel after everything she's been through. Grieving for Max without doing it in every bar in a 10-mile radius."

Michael _is_ proud of himself. It's a quiet, humble kind of feeling that is one of the newest emotions in his arsenal that Michael didn't know he had. He can acknowledge Sheriff Valenti's words and not feel _silly_ for them, as he might have done. So he smiles back, accepting her words with a simple nod.

"Still have some work ahead," she adds, once again with that stern eyebrow raise. Michael doesn't mind.

"Yeah. I do. Actually, I'm looking forward to it."

"I have a feeling you're going to be thriving studying."

"I hope so. Seems good right now, anyway."

"Well, good. I'm glad. I hope you're not _too_ pissed at me for doing what I did," she adds, this time with a rueful smile that is laced with a touch of apology.

Michael takes a deep breath, having rehearsed these next words a few times. "Actually, I wanna thank you. Not gonna pretend I _enjoyed_ having any of this happen. But I honestly don't know where I would be, or what would be happening, if you hadn't. And maybe, it's been a... let's just say, it's been a rude awakening. But I think I needed it. So... thank you."

Sheriff Valenti smiles at him like he has given her a prize. "Well. I'm just looking forward to seeing what you do now."

"What do you mean?"

Sheriff Valenti leans to pull open her desk drawer. "You turned your life around—granted; with a little help—in just what's really a few _months_. Imagine what you can achieve after all this."

There is a lump in his throat already, but when she slides his license across the desk to him, Michael is seconds from crying.

"I think you'll be needing this to get yourself about, wherever you need to be. I _hope_ you'll be staying with Isobel for the foreseeable future, instead of that Airstream that... no offense needs a little _work_."

Michael curls his fingers around the license. Why does something so small feel like an anchor, and also confirmation that he gets this second chance? "Oh, she's stuck with me for now. Don't think she'd _let_ me leave."

"Good. I'm pleased to hear it."

Silence has never been a good thing for Michael, but he sits for far longer than he thinks he might have persevered with than in the past. When he can't sit still any longer, he shifts in his chair and clears his throat. "So. Am I free to go?"

Sheriff Valenti stands, smoothing down her shirt. "Just want you to know, how proud of you I am. I know Max would be as well."

He needs to get out before he really starts crying. "I hope he would."

"Believe me. Maybe he didn't say it to you as often as he should, but he was proud of you. And he loved you. Don't doubt that."

Michael ducks his head, breathing slowly to steady himself. "Yeah. I know."

"You take care of yourself, you hear me?" Sheriff Valenti says then. "And if you need anything, or just... I'm here. I don't know what help I might be, but I want you to know I'm here, if you need me. As is Kyle. And... everyone else around you. Okay, Michael?"

Michael nods, not trusting himself to speak, waving as he makes his way out.

* * *

Michael can't quite believe he is here, in Alex's car, driving to Alex's cabin. Today has been tortuously long, and as Michael keeps running his hands down the legs of his jeans because he is so on edge for finally being with him, he is still not convinced he might still be in bed dreaming, and is about to wake.

"I hope pasta is okay," Alex says as they drive, at least sounding a little as nervous as Michael feels. "I made a bake. Sausage. Mushroom. Lots of cheese."

"Pasta's great."

"I made that iced tea you keep drinking," Alex adds with a smile and a quick glance in Michael's direction. It's become Michael's go-to drink, always a jugful in the fridge. That Alex has put thought into all of this shouldn't be as touching as it is, but it _is_ to Michael.

"Thank you. Though you don't have to _not_ drink for me."

"Doesn't bother me. It's no problem, is what I mean," Alex amends, frowning like he's kicking himself for his choice of words. Michael likes his words just _fine_.

"Okay."

"Why am I so _nervous_ about this?" Alex says then, laughing at himself. It probably wasn't his intention, but just those few words take some of the tension from Michael's spine.

"Probably for similar reasons I am?"

"But it's just _us_," Alex says, turning to really smile at him. "There shouldn't be anything left for us to be nervous about."

Alex has been talking to a therapist as well, working through issues with his father, things he saw while serving overseas, and of course, his leg. They talk about it sometimes, trading stories from their _sessions_, groaning out their embarrassment for some of the details they've had to share. Michael is proud of them both for it. And hopeful for what they both might be like on the other side of it all. Hopefully _together_.

"I have a surprise for you," Alex adds then as they make the final turn up towards his cabin, and Michael's stomach performs extra complicated acrobats.

"Oh?"

"You'll see. You'll have no _choice_," Alex says, with the most beautiful smile on his face that honestly, Michael is a little dazed for seeing.

Alex's _surprise_ doesn't keep itself to itself, already woofing in excitement before he gets the door open. Michael is greeted by the most beautiful, affectionate beagle who has him on his knees on Alex's kitchen floor in his best jeans. He doesn't even _mind_.

"Who's this beautiful girl?" Michael asks, cooing over her and already in love with her soft woofs and thumping tail that just says _happy _over and over.

"This is _Buffy_," Alex says, bending to stroke her ears. "I got her two days ago. This is the longest we've been apart since; I think she's pleased to see us."

"She's _perfect_."

"She _is_," Alex agrees, beginning to tell him about Buffy, the shelter he'd picked her up from, and how already she has made herself at home. Buffy is _perfect_. Michael sees she already has a treat drawer in the kitchen and another cupboard with other things. This girl is going to be thoroughly spoiled, and deserves every moment of it.

When Buffy has had her fill of attention, she disappears, only for Michael to peek around the corner to the lounge and find her curled up in a bed. The living room looks homely, and so very _Alex_; Michael can feel waves of calm hitting him for it.

"Are you hungry yet?" Alex asks, already pouring them both a glass of iced tea, gesturing for him to follow him through to the lounge.

"Not too hungry."

"So, I'll put it on to heat through in maybe an hour?"

"Perfect."

And then they talk, about everything and anything, like it is the most easy, natural thing for them to do in the world. Alex tells the _best_ stories about the people around him doing the most hilarious of impressions, while Michael has him in stitches doing the same about people who come into the scrapyard. Alex gets really invested in talking about an app he thinks will help Michael when studying, waxing lyrical using words that just go over Michael's head; not that he minds. He'd happily sit here listening to Alex be excited about anything. He doesn't have to understand. Michael then loses him on some of the finer points of a module he is really looking forward to. Alex just looks at him with the most adoring smile on his face.

They eat dinner, which is delicious, Alex waving away Michael's offer of washing dishes by leaving everything in soak. They groan when they return to the couch for being so full on second helpings that for a little while at last, it is even too much effort to talk. Though then they do, and it is just as easy, just as simple to let the words flow. Michael wants to think things have never been easier between them. But when he is left alone with that thought when Alex moves to use the bathroom, he realizes these past few months have also been easy ones for them. Easy for things involving them together, at least. He is hit with that hopeful feeling again, and hopes he isn't projecting by thinking he sees the same look on Alex's face when he returns.

"Have you played a guitar since Max fixed your hand? I mean, _since_ then?" Alex asks, hesitating before taking his hand, pulling it into his lap where he gently runs his fingertips over his scars. Michael is so dazed for it, that it takes a moment for his brain to catch up, and then to remind himself to tread carefully with his words.

"Uh. No. No; hadn't even thought about it too much. But maybe I should."

"Just that night in the Wild Pony?"

Michael tenses, though Alex's look for him says there is no need. "Not since then, no."

"I can't remember the last time I played at all."

"You should," Michael says, continuing to watch his careful ministrations in awe. "You were good."

"So were you. You said it made you peaceful," Alex adds, fixing him with a look that Michael knows means this is it, this is the turn in conversation to one that might get difficult. But it's good; they need for it to happen if they are ever going to move forward.

"It did. But I'm learning some new ways to find that."

"Like what?"

"Well. Just some of these techniques, and things, you know? The guy I see, he talks a lot about awareness, and stepping out of a moment, or being able to look back on your mood or whatever without feeling like it's _you_. Sort of; that's how I interpret it, anyway."

Alex's face twists as he smiles, wrinkling his nose. "I started boxing."

"_Boxing_?"

"There's a gym I found, with this insane discount for veterans, and people serving. It's good. Once a week, saving up my anger to take it out on that bag. Not _really_ saving it up, but, you know."

Michael smiles, for not picturing Alex boxing and then _immediately_ being able to, and having to rein his thoughts in from wandering. "Well. That's good, Alex."

"I'm resisting the urge to get one here. A punch bag I mean. Though then I'd just paint my dad's face on it, and I don't know; maybe I'd break a beam or something. Or a hand."

Jesse Manes is still in a coma, one that Kyle isn't convinced he's ever getting out of. Michael hopes he doesn't, and that if he does, Alex will be _ready_ to face him, like he might need to, to get some of that closure his therapist keeps speaking about.

"How's the swimming?" Michael asks, for knowing Alex is doing that once a week as well. Now he has his license back, Michael is thinking of taking up some hobbies, or finding new interests, or _something_. Maybe like swimming; he likes the sound of that.

"It's good. It's like the opposite of the boxing. Calming instead of punching everything out of me."

Alex is _still_ holding his hand, still stroking the same soothing patterns over his knuckles. Why is he so shocked by the gesture? Haven't they held on and hugged for longer and longer each time Alex has come to visit?

"That's great."

"I think it's good for my leg."

"Not doing too much?"

"No," Alex says, smiling at him, finally slotting his fingers through Michael's and resting them against his thigh. "No. Not too much."

"Well, good." Michael knows he needs to say more, but doesn't know where to start. Though he has to try. "I hope, maybe, when I start my course, and I... I hope, maybe, you and me can... maybe we can do some things together."

"You want to come _boxing_ with me?" Alex teases, smiling at him in a way Michael can't help echo.

"Well. Maybe not _that_. Maybe the swimming, though."

Alex looks alarmed. "We might have to work up to swimming."

That old ache of not being good enough to be seen with Alex threatens to creep up on him. Michael argues it down, keeping his face neutral as he waits for Alex to keep talking.

"Michael," Alex says, licking his lips, and giving him a quick look over, "there is no way I think I could—there is _no_ way I will survive in a pool with you only in swim shorts. I am _not_ that strong right now. Seriously. Don't do that to me."

That _ache_ is replaced by another feeling entirely, a tickling sensation that means he is about to erupt. Michael bursts out laughing for the serious look on Alex's face. It's not even that _funny_. But Alex talking about his lack of restraint when they are so politely holding hands, and haven't so much as _kissed_ in months, is hilarious. Especially since in the past it has been impossible for them to keep their hands off one another.

"I don't know, Alex. We've managed so far," he says, leaning so he can nudge his shoulder against Alex's.

"Barely."

"What do you mean, _barely_?" Michael asks, trying to ignore the way heat is stirring in him for the look on Alex's face.

"I never stopped wanting you."

"Same. But I don't think that's ever been the problem between us."

Alex's smile becomes wistful. "No. You're right."

"And I meant other things too. Not just swimming," Michael says, cursing that, despite getting better at talking, his words coming out no smoother for it. "Like... you know. Dinner. Or just hanging out. Or just... everything."

"Like dates?" Alex says softly turning more towards him. Michael moves as well, letting his arm rest along the back of the couch as he tangles his fingers through Alex's on the cushion between them.

"Yeah. Like dates."

"Do you not think maybe... we've been doing that a little already?"

The lunches, the not-date at the Crashdown; so maybe they _have_ been, and Michael just wasn't brave enough to hope for it. "Well. Maybe."

"Michael." Alex closes his eyes like what he is about to say is _painful_ to him. "I really am sorry that I ever made you feel like I was embarrassed to be with you. Because I never was. It wasn't about _you_, at all. And you deserve to be with someone who is proud to be with you—which I _am_. It was just... complicated. And that's not an excuse, though it probably sounds like an excuse—"

"Alex; no. This isn't all on you. And it's not all on me either," Michael says, which is far easier to get out than it had been a couple of months earlier. "We just—our timing was always off. We kept hurting each other and making excuses. I think maybe we were both too scared; the sex was easy, right? Didn't have to think too hard about that. It was just everything else."

"I never wanted you for just that."

"Neither did I," Michael replies, "but it was easier acting that way when you walked way from me."

"I don't think I will _ever_ forget the look on your face every time I did that," Alex says, closing his eyes again. Michael pushes Alex's hair back from his forehead, smiling when he looks at him.

"I gave you plenty of reasons to keep walking. You still kept coming back."

"And you always _took_ me back. Every time. I didn't ever apologize to you—"

"Neither did I," Michael points out. "And I _am_ sorry. For every time I hurt you, for every single thing I said that... I'm sorry, okay? I am. And I plan on working on earning your forgiveness." This is all so _formal_, and not like them at all. But Michael thinks they need a little formality to their words for this. Hell knows they've avoided really speaking for so long.

"I'm sorry too," Alex says, with tears in his eyes that Michael wasn't expecting to see. "And you have my forgiveness; if you'll take mine."

"Of course I do," Michael says, now surprised that he is tearing up himself. He'd expected possible raised voices or difficult words, but not tears. "I think, maybe, we just move on from here, promising to do what we can to not_ hurt _each other. I don't know if either of us can expect more than that."

"I'm so proud of you," Alex whispers, smiling even as tears begin to stream down his face, "I'm so, so proud, Michael."

Is there any better feeling than this? Being told someone is proud of him? Michael isn't convinced, and he's been hearing it a lot these past months. He _likes_ it. "I'm proud of you too."

"But I didn't do anything."

"Yes you did," Michael says, wiping tears from Alex's cheeks, which is silly when he is now crying too. "You worked so hard to get better with your leg. You're talking to someone, to help you with.. all kinds of stuff. You protect everyone around you. You never gave up on me, when you had every right to. I'm proud, really, that I'm lucky enough to have you want to still be around."

"That's because I _love_ you, Michael," Alex says, his voice finally cracking. Michael still thinks Alex is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"Alex. You know I love you too, right?" he asks, cupping Alex's cheek and smiling when he nods. "I _love_ you," he repeats, in case his words weren't clear enough.

"I know," Alex tells him, opening his arms for a hug. Michael falls against him, gathering Alex close, convinced now more than ever that they are going to _make_ it this time.

Michael has a future to look forward to, a roof over his head, work he enjoys, and friends and family that he loves. And Alex, of course, who is clinging to him just as tight. _This_, Michael thinks as he cradles Alex to him, _this_ is what it means to be whole.

* * *


End file.
